


Hell on Haven

by ourwinko



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Character Death, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourwinko/pseuds/ourwinko
Summary: Prince Taeyong of the Empire might as well be a saint. He’s brave, cunning, and is loved by the people. But, his pristine reputation is suddenly stained with a heavy accusation: he’s being blamed for the murder of his own brother, a fellow prince. And what’s worse? He doesn’t remember a single thing.Charged with a crime he did not commit and with allies few and far in between, Taeyong may just have to turn to his worst enemy for help.
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 42
Kudos: 76





	1. The Sun Will Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Before anything, I'd like to state that this story is in no way an accurate reflection of the real-life people that inspired the characters in it. This is just a work of fiction. 
> 
> Now, this story may deal with some mature (?) themes, such as war, corruption, death, and all that. And I am an angst connoisseur so there will be an overwhelming amount of it! How fun. Don't worry though! There will be a happy ending. 
> 
> Thank you to my one beta <3 you may not point out the mistakes but you keep me going ANYWAYS! have fun ;) I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

_Taeyong, wake up._

The state between sleep and wakefulness is always a peculiar one. On one hand, your mind is addled, foggy with hours spent in slumber and vague dreams shifting into black. On the other, it’s like taking your first breath after a period of lifelessness, like the first rays of sun peeking through the distant horizon, ready to set the sky ablaze. 

Taeyong wakes up to a frenzy of things. His body, despite being nestled in what felt like the softest of cushions, ached from inactivity. The first thing Taeyong sees is a vibrant ceiling. It was high and colorful, coming to life with a painting that stretched above the entire room. It was of tree-covered mountains and trees with pink leaves, and a winged angel resting atop the clouds, hand outstretched to a mortal man below him. Taeyong thinks that this painting would be significant to him, should be significant to him, but recognition sits at the shadowy edges of his mind, getting farther out of reach until Taeyong doesn’t know what he’s looking at anymore. 

He looks around at the room. Every item, every piece of furniture, every article and belonging set off a strange, dull familiarity in him, as if this wasn’t the first time he’s seeing them. And yet, as he gazes around, dizzied by confusion, the room feels novel, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. 

The doors to his room click softly open, a set of white double-doors with gold trim. The once golden knobs have visibly turned brass from years of use. A soft gasp comes from the doorway, and Taeyong looks up at a wide-eyed, fair-skinned man. 

“Oh, Prince Taeyong. You’re awake!” 

The man delicately closes the door behind him, approaching with light footsteps and an angelic smile. Taeyong can’t help but feel relieved at the sight of another face. Perhaps this man could shed some light on the situation, could get rid of this hole in Taeyong’s mind that’s getting larger by the minute, gaping and vacuum, siphoning all semblance of coherence and sanity that he has until he’s dysfunctional. 

“I should introduce myself,” he continues, and only now does Taeyong notice the steaming cup of tea he holds in his fingers. He sets it down on the stand beside the bed. “I’m Jungwoo, I’m a cleric of the Clergy. The Emperor has put you in my care until you recover.”

Jungwoo’s smile is bright, and Jungwoo is very tall. His white robes flow down his body delicately, making him look radiant and soft. 

“Recover?” _An illness?_ “From what?”

“We’re not quite sure as well, my prince. Your case is quite the anomaly. Do you feel anything? Something bad?”

“No, I feel fine. It’s just… where am I?”

“You’re in the Grand Palace, my prince,” Jungwoo says, placing the cup of tea in Taeyong’s hands. “This is your highness’s room.”

Taeyong looks at his rippling reflection on the surface of the pink, steaming liquid, his own face almost foreign to him. 

“Etheria tea, your highness,” Jungwoo says, as if catching onto the curious look on the Prince’s face. “We get the leaves from the trees in the garden. Majestic things, those trees. Pink leaves, white branches. It has natural healing and calming properties too. One of Haven’s greatest gifts to us mortals, I think.”

_Haven._ The word triggers familiarity in Taeyong’s mind. 

“Haven, that’s… that’s what we call this world, right?” 

Jungwoo nods. “Seems an ill-fitting name, all things considered.”

“Pardon?”

“Forgive me, my prince,” Jungwoo looks down at his hands, fingers working away at the edges of his nails. “I’ve spoken out of turn. It’s just that Haven doesn’t live up to the name in recent times. War and strife looms at the borders like dark shadows. Soon, the ministers say, an unforgiving night will come.” 

“War?”

“Never you mind, my prince. Our first matter at hand is your well-being. Take a sip of the tea will you? It’ll set you back on your feet, I guarantee.”

Taeyong obeys, letting the dull flavor of leaf coat his throat in warmth. It’s a peculiar taste - bitter and underlined with sweetness. It warms his stomach and alerts his senses. Taeyong feels better, that’s for sure. It’s as if the pink liquid was magic. But the void in his mind isn’t alleviated by the second sip, or the third. In fact, he finishes the cup and still, his mind is as empty as when he woke up.

“I can’t remember anything,” Taeyong says, looking up at Jungwoo, whose expression slowly turns serious, more mature. It’s as if a shadow has descended on his face, dulling the shine of his smile. “This room, you say it’s mine, but I don’t recognize any of it. I feel as if I’m lost.”

“Well, there’d be no use in beating around the bush, is there, your highness?” He chuckles half-heartedly, patting his robes down to distract him from the weight of the words he’s about to let go. “The truth is, the clergy has been keeping a close eye on you since you fell into your coma, and our ruminations showed us that memory loss was highly likely. To what extent, we did not know, but during the time you were asleep, there was so much turmoil in your mind. I’d say a fair portion of your memories would be gone. How much do you remember?”

“I remember the Empire. I serve it, I am one of its princes. There are four of us, I think. Four…” Taeyong pauses. Images flash through his head, red hot and searing, it makes the back of his eyes hurt worse than any migraine. A knife in his hand, stained with the blood of a prince. 

“Prince Taeyong?” Jungwoo blinks at him with unmasked concern. 

“Jungwoo, is there something you’re not telling me?”

Jungwoo opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Hesitation is written all over his face, and that’s answer enough for the prince. 

“My prince, I-”

“If you value my well-being, you would tell me all I need to know.” Taeyong takes Jungwoo’s hand in his own, firm yet gentle. A threat encased in docile wrappings. “Won’t you?”

“It’s hardly my place to tell you-” He locks eyes with the prince and swallows. “But I suppose- I suppose it wouldn’t be out of turn. You deserve the truth. That much at least. Alright, my prince, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“It is by no means an easy thing to digest. You’re being charged with murder.”

Jungwoo searches his face for any reaction, anything at all.

Taeyong can’t think, can’t speak. The images flash in his mind. A blood-stained dagger in his hands. He manages a small, “Who?”

“One of the other princes. I know nothing more than rumor or hearsay so I’ll stop there.”

There’s bile coming up his throat. An uncomfortable feeling churns in his gut, a feeling that could only be described as disgust. Disgust at himself, for killing someone who’s supposed to be a brother to him. And then there was the onslaught of pain and confusion in his mind. 

“But Jungwoo,” Taeyong says, voice riddled with self-doubt. “I don’t remember. I- I would never. I’m not a murderer.”

Jungwoo doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all. Pity, doubt, pooling in those innocent eyes, staring at him with a gaze that made Taeyong feel uncomfortable in his own skin. 

“Your highness,” Jungwoo starts softly, and this time he takes it upon himself to reach out to one of Taeyong’s hands. “Guilty or not, I will try my best to help you get better. We’ll work towards getting those memories back, hm? How does that sound?”

“I’m not a murderer,” Taeyong repeats, his voice wavering. Taeyong is losing confidence in himself, losing hold of his barely-there sanity. He repeats those four words to himself in an effort to tear off that blood-red label smudged all over him. _Murderer._

Just then, several sets of footsteps emerge from beyond Taeyong’s bedroom door, the heavy thud of boots against the floor. The pristine wooden doors are not so gently pushed open by firm hands, and soon several guards in armor and elaborate helmets, armed with imposing spears, enter into the once-private space of his room. Ahead of them is a man who carries himself forward with firm grace, his blemishless face framed by strands of raven-black hair. His posture alone sets him apart, but his armor distinguishes him as someone of higher rank. 

“Prince Taeyong, forgive us for the intrusion,” he says, voice a warm baritone. Taeyong could only blink cluelessly. The man’s gaze shifts toward Jungwoo. “It’s time.”

“General Jung!” Jungwoo’s facial expression crumbles into further distress. “I- Jaehyun, I’m afraid the situation calls for a reschedule. The prince is not ready.”

“Ready for what?” Taeyong asks, eyes confusedly darting between the two men. “Who are you?”

“General Jung Jaehyun, my prince,” he says, bowing gallantly. The guards imitate this gesture. “I am here to escort you to the Magistrate for your trial.”

Taeyong’s heart starts hammering in his chest. A Magistrate trial doesn’t sound particularly friendly, not when he just found out that he’s being blamed for the murder of his own brother. Jungwoo doesn’t miss the frantic look Taeyong gives him, and the cleric rushes to stand between the two, smile clearly straining at the excess of damage-control that didn’t come with his responsibilities as a healer. 

“Hold on,” Jungwoo says, the softness of his voice making way for a firmer tone. “Surely the Magistrate will have to have some consideration? The prince has barely recovered, let alone gotten up from his bed, and not to mention, he’s lost large portions of his memory. It would be an unfair trial, don’t you think?”

“I’m here under orders, Jungwoo. The Magistrate demands that the Prince shall stand trial at once. His highness can comply, or we will have to take him there by force.”

Jungwoo opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. It seems the cleric has exhausted his usefulness in this regard. Very few would like to contradict the Magistrate. Taeyong remembers that much.

“I’m sorry, my Prince,” Jungwoo says, backing down with reluctance. “I’m afraid it is out of my power to delay the Magistrate’s orders.” 

Taeyong is frozen. But, he knows one thing. He is a Prince, and he refuses to relinquish himself undignified. He rises from the bed, and Jungwoo scrambles to support him as he trembles on his feet. 

“Fine,” Taeyong says, as calmly as he can. “I shall go, if the Magistrate so desires my presence.”

If Jaehyun was fazed by the prince’s newfound composure, it doesn’t show on the firm features of his unblemished face. “They do, your highness.” 

“Leave me to get dressed,” Taeyong says, walking to the far-side of the room with more than half of his weight shifted on Jungwoo’s steady arm. “Or do you want to see me do that as well?”

The reddening of cheeks and out-of-place coughs were answer enough. 

“We’ll leave you to it, my prince,” Jaehyun says.

The doors close behind the general and his troop of guards, and Jungwoo eyes the prince with a knowing glint. 

“You’re still sharp as ever, your highness,” he says lightly, his fingers dancing softly upon Taeyong’s skin as he helps the prince into his attire. “I’m glad.”

Jungwoo ties a length of white fabric around Taeyong’s waist, and when he brings it into a knot, Taeyong finds his stomach constricted and his figure much more well defined - despite the abundance of cloth that flowed down his body. 

“Was it in-character of me? I fear I’ve quite forgotten who exactly I am.”

Taeyong turns in place as Jungwoo stands back and surveys him. The cleric smiles, pleased with his work. 

“You are Lord Taeyong of the Empire, Prince of Light. I suggest you remember that much, my Prince, and don’t you forget it. There are many who will not take kindly to you given the charges placed upon your head.” Then, he hesitates, as if he wants to say more. The words come after a pause. “We were never good friends, or even close acquaintances, your highness, but listen. You are the bravest of us. I know this much.” 

“Do you believe it, Jungwoo? That I am a murderer?”

Outside, the birds that chirped from their perches on the windowsills seem to quiet, and even the wind ceases to howl for a moment. Even in the sunlight, Jungwoo’s face is hard to read. The silence stretches like a chasm between them. 

“I could not possibly judge, your highness.”

It’s a brief answer. Not dishonest, but reserved. Taeyong wonders if the same images flash in Jungwoo’s mind - a knife in a prince’s hand, stained with the blood of his kin. The shadows of doubt grow long and large, and they loom among the crevices of Taeyong’s heart, casting darkness within the Prince of Light. 

-

The Magistrate is an imposing structure. It is crowned by a large pearl-like dome that curves high into the grey sky, and from it a purple banner waves erratically in the wind - the color of so-called justice. It looms in the distance long before they ride past its gates.

The journey from the palace to the magistrate takes the carriage through wide, crowded streets where angry mobs have already gathered. They wave pitchforks and torches in the air, and their faces were congested with unbridled fury that Taeyong felt in the depths of his being as a frantic, hot searing that set his core aflame. Had it not been for Jaehyun and his troop escorting him, Taeyong thinks that the mob would’ve already pushed the carriage over to its side and set it aflame with the Prince still inside. 

Such was their anger - and Taeyong almost feels as if he deserves it. 

The arrival at the Magistrate is a calmer affair, yet the air is permeated with poorly dealt-with tension, as seen in the rugged posture of the senator who had been tasked with receiving the prince.

“Your highness,” he greets, his purple robes widening his width to several times his size. “I am Senator Qian Kun. We’re glad you were able to make it here in one piece.”

Taeyong puts on a tight-lipped smile, shaking the Senator’s hand with a firm grip. “I have General Jung to thank.” 

“It’s my pleasure, your highness,” Jaehyun bows, and with his arm he gestures to the adorned double-doors of the Magistrate. “Shall we proceed inside?”

“Right. If you’d follow me.” Kun looks as if he’d rather sprint inside than walk, the only thing holding him back being plain courtesy for the prince. 

Once they pass through the front doors, and once the doors close behind their entourage, something shifts. Without the noise of the angry mob, their footsteps bounce off the high ceilings. Indecipherable murmurs echo from half-open doors and from gossiping mouths hidden behind hands. 

“The Magistrate is glad to have you here, Prince Taeyong, on short notice especially.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Kun looks apologetic, at least. “Ah, we’re quite sorry about that. The thing about the Magistrate is one delay causes a hell of a lot of problems, and they have some special code to adhere to. Justice is swift, and all that.”

Taeyong sees no appropriate reply, so he keeps his silence. But the senator, it seems, has more to say.

“I’ll be blunt, my prince, and I hope you’ll forgive me, but it’ll do you no harm to know that the Magistrate doesn’t find your case particularly favorable. They reason that the weight of the accusations against you is simply unforgivable. Most of them are quite decided on this, it seems.”

Unforgivable. A kinslaying. It’s perfectly reasonable.

Then, _it’s a warning,_ Taeyong realizes. _Do not go looking for allies in the Magistrate._

“Thank you for telling me,” Taeyong says, hoping that the senator will look him in the eye just this once. He does. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Be very cautious, your highness,” Kun says, deep and low so that it was disguised as an unintelligible murmur. “Anyway, they’re all pushing for the most severe sentence. No leeway even for nobility - which is how it should be, I suppose. However… well, nevermind. General Jung, leave your troop here, please.”

They’ve entered a secluded chamber now, a sort of holding room that leads to the main court. Jaehyun instructs his men to stand guard outside the door, and he closes the heavy wooden thing with a thud - making room for more silence. Jaehyun stays distant, ever the guard but never a friend. 

“I’ll be put to death,” Taeyong says later, not a question but a statement. 

“That is yet to be decided.” Kun tries for a smile, but it appears as a worried pursing of the lips. “Besides, you’re in the hands of a talented juror. There may be hope for you yet, my Prince.”

“I’m scared,” Taeyong admits, and the Senator looks at him not with pity but with a knowing smile.

“That’s very unlike you, my Prince. That is, if legends and stories hold even an ounce of truth. You appear in them plenty, you see, and the scribes do not fail to mention your fearlessness in abundance.” 

“I’ve lost my memory, I think you’ve heard. My bravery is the one thing I keep being reminded of. For some reason, I find it hard to believe. Now, especially.”

“Well, you know what they say. The bravest people are the ones who possess the greatest fear. It is their ability to not let that fear control them that makes them so brave.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.” 

“If anything, you are right to be scared, my prince.” When Taeyong looks at Kun, he sees trepidation written into the lines of his face. “I myself doubt the validity of this case. You may not be the one who should stand trial, but there are no steady grounds for that accusation. Anywho, you have one brother left, and I have faith that _he_ of all people wouldn’t let the ax so quietly sever your head.”

Just then, the door opens. 

“Pleasant morning,” A new voice enters the fray. It cracks at the first syllable, but the prince does not comment. Taeyong turns to find the only man not dressed in robes or armor. Of all of them in this building, he is the one that looks most normal, clad only in a ruffled shirt and a well-fitting pair of trousers. “I am Mark Lee, your juror. Let’s discuss your case, shall we?”

With a reassuring smile from Kun, Taeyong lets himself be whisked off to another room that looks more like a cell, and there in the scarce candlelight they examine an elaborate scroll marked with the symbol of the Magistrate.

“Mark Lee,” the juror says for the second time once they sit down. He extends his hand out to the prince. “I’m your juror.”

“You’ve said that already.” But Taeyong indulges in the handshake anyway, if only to calm the juror down. 

“Right, I have. So, uh,” Taeyong could glean traces of nervousness on him. Sweat beading on his hairline, wiped away hastily with a handkerchief. Shaking hands placated enough that it doesn’t seem apparent. “Let’s begin with the warrant for your arrest. You’re being charged with kinslaying, you understand that, right?”

“I do.” 

Taeyong understands that much. In fact, everyone he’s come across so far hasn’t failed to make him understand. Everyone except the duty-bound general who doesn’t seem particularly interested in conversation. Taeyong doesn’t blame him. If he were in the general’s shoes, he wouldn’t want to talk to a murderer either.

“It’s no secret that kinslaying is one of the most severe crimes you could ever have engaged with in the Empire. Not to mention, your brother was a war hero. It’s understandable why the public reacted the way they did. How much do you remember?”

The juror’s words are daggers. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Only my name.” It is the truth. Everything else, Taeyong is not sure of. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

“Right.” Mark’s fingers deftly sort through a thick stack of paperwork. “You can calm down for today’s hearing, I think. You wouldn’t need to do much. Since you’ve just woken from your coma, the Magistrate allowed me to speak on your behalf. That means you don’t need to do any work - just sit there and,” Mark looks up at him with bright, wide eyes. “Don’t look like a murderer.”

Taeyong has half a mind to chuckle quietly. “Of course.”

Mark is childlike. It’s inherent to him, Taeyong thinks. Something effortless and natural. And yet, over the course of this conversation, Taeyong finds that Mark isn’t as naive as he seems. His eyes are sharp. Sharp eyes catch everything - and that is a valuable weapon. Taeyong would know. The juror reminds him of a lion cub. Small, endearing even, and not quite having grown into a fierce lion just yet. Even so, the prince does not underestimate him. Lion cubs, as most would fail to realize, still have claws. They will make you bleed if they have to.

“They’re going to ask you questions at first, just for formality. A simple yes or no shall do. Another thing, your highness,” he says, addressing the prince appropriately for the first time. It startles Taeyong just the slightest bit. “I feel as if I should reassure you of this. You can trust me.”

Taeyong hums, a short, contemplative sound that gives nothing away. _Words are but wind,_ he thinks. The silence that follows is expected. Taeyong thinks they’re done, until Mark breaks the silence. It’s a decision made on the whim.

“Uh-” Mark clears his throat. “Your highness?”

“Yes, Mark?”

“I’m very honored to be working with you.” 

Taeyong smiles. “Even if I’m potentially a murderer?”

_“Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat.”_

It is a foreign tongue, one that Taeyong recognizes. It takes him a few seconds to recall the meaning.

“The burden of proof is on the one who declares, not on one who denies.”

Mark nods, a small smile on his lips. “Innocent until proven guilty, your highness.” 

-

The courtroom is deadly quiet - a stark contrast to the commotion outside the Magistrate gates. Scribes wait with their quills hovering upon stacks of parchments, magisters sit upon their seats, looking down their noses at the Prince who in their minds, they already hold in contempt.

_They’re already decided, it seems._

“Lord Taeyong.”

The voice is that of the magister sitting ahead of everyone else, on a rostrum that elevated him above his peers. His name is Kim Heechul, chief magister of the Empire - and the orchestrator of this whole trial. It is his word that will decide Taeyong’s fate. 

Taeyong stands at the center of the room, where a beam of sunlight strikes him from a glass opening on the dome above. “Magister.” 

“Let it be known that every word is being documented by our sun-scribes. Do you promise to uphold the truth and nothing but the whole truth?”

“I do.” Taeyong spots Kun in one of the seats, his gentle face an outlier among the sea of wrinkled, twisted faces that surrounded him. 

“Lord Taeyong, do you understand why you are here?”

“I do.”

“Very well, the charge against you is as follows: You, Lord Taeyong, son of Sunjong, Prince of Light, first in line to the throne of the Empire, are being charged with the grievous crime of kinslaying.”

The last word leaves his mouth like a wicked curse, and it settles on Taeyong with the weight of a death sentence. 

“The crime had been committed against your blood brother, Lord Yuta, son of Sunjong, Prince of Flames, second in line to the throne of the Empire. The accusation is supported by a witness - Master Wong Yukhei, the Emperor’s Executioner. We shall hear his account after the defendant has spoken. Lord Taeyong, do you understand that the accusation leveled against you is punishable by death?”

_Yuta._ Taeyong knows this name.

He knows it intimately, he’s sure. His heart aches at the mention of it - grief floods through his being like a roaring river.

_Prince of Flames._

In his mind’s eye, Taeyong sees two eyes. Two ember eyes that seem to catch fire. A face - a smiling face, brighter than a thousand stars. Brighter than a million bonfires. 

A heart. Fiercer than a raging wildfire, brazen like an inferno unleashed.

_Yuta_. He is Taeyong’s brother - and it is his blood that stains Taeyong’s hand.

_“Lord Taeyong,_ are you with us?” 

The magister’s annoyed voice snaps Taeyong back into reality, and he finds Mark’s worried face staring expectantly at him. 

“My apologies. I understand, magister.”

“We understand that you have only recently awoken from your coma, but the members of the Magistrate would appreciate it if you could keep your composure for the trial, your highness.”

_How haughty._ “Of course.”

“We shall now hear what your juror has to say. Juror Mark Lee, please rise and begin your defense.”

In the silence, everyone seems to hold their breath. Mark is distant, sat on a bench somewhere behind Taeyong. There’s another man beside him, well-built and clad in embellished palace guard attire.That must be Wong Yukhei. Beside all the tall magisters and their puffy robes and the Emperor’s Executioner, Mark seems small. But when he stands, he carries himself the way a lion would - with pride and quiet strength. 

In that moment, Taeyong remembers what the juror said. _You can trust me._ Taeyong wills himself to do so - to blindly have faith - simply because he has no other choice.

Mark begins with an easy greeting, as if he’d done it countless times before. The highlight is when he launches into his argument. His eyes light up. His hands move in fluid but firm gestures. His voice fills the room without needing to raise his volume. 

“It would be a terrible miscarriage of justice to punish the Prince by death when he is incapable of pleading guilty or not guilty to the accusations brought against him.” 

Then, it comes. Taeyong feels it first at the back of his head, where his skull meets his neck: A slight twinge of pain that he easily brushes aside. 

“He suffers from memory loss,” Mark continues. “This alone should be enough to deem him unfit for trial. Therefore, I propose to the Magistrate a postponement of the trial until the prince has recovered his memory.”

Murmurs of disapproval arise at the proposal of postponement - and even Heechul cannot disguise the grimace that twists his lips.

“We will consider the proposal.” _They will not._ “Master Wong, please rise and deliver your account.” 

The pain comes again - fiercer this time, and Taeyong has to manage his breaths. It burns against his temples and behind his eyes until his ears start ringing. 

A rugged voice starts speaking. Taeyong cannot focus on it—he hears only bits and pieces. 

“—I found Prince Taeyong with a knife in his hand, standing over the body.” 

Heechul’s vulture eyes latch onto Taeyong. 

“Lord Taeyong, is this true? How do you plead?”

“I plead—“ The pain returns tenfold. It consumes his head in a flurry of searing pain, and he feels his knees give away. 

His back does not touch the ground, instead coming into contact with a firm armored arm that holds him up.

_Jaehyun._

The general bends over him with his eyebrows furrowed, and with a commanding voice he orders everyone not to come close.

The domed ceiling is a spiral in Taeyong’s vision, twisting, turning, closing in and folding in upon itself until the world is collapsing.

There’s commotion. Magisters are crying out in outrage, in scorn, and it all echoes. It’s a nasty mixture of sounds, like a spiteful orchestra chasing after a raging crescendo. 

The noise stops when the doors open, announcing the entrance of someone important. There are murmurs and gasps of surprise. Even Jaehyun’s mouth falls open. One voice rises above all others.

“You will postpone this trial.” 

Taeyong knows that voice. In the edges of his vision, he sees a blurry figure clad in black robes. If Taeyong was delirious, he’d assume it was the grim reaper, come to take his soul.

“Your highness,” Heechul breathes in surprise. He sputters for a moment. “You… You can’t be here. This is a Magistrate aff—“

_“You will postpone the trial.”_

His voice is an eerie melody, layered with harmonies that threaten and persuade. His footsteps echo closer, until Taeyong can see only his back as he approaches the court.

“The public-“

“Will you have a prince stand trial in this state?” Beware to those who answer yes. Ugly things await them. That’s why no one speaks. “I speak with the authority of the Emperor. Lord Taeyong’s trial will be moved until he is deemed well by the Clergy.”

The magister can’t do anything but sneer and shake in frustration at this mysterious black-clad royalty. The last thing Taeyong registers is the banging of the gavel and an uttering of incoherent words. More is said, but Taeyong can’t hear, can’t think, can’t feel anything. Not when there are images flashing in his mind.

_A black rose._

_A crimson-stained dagger._

_Ember eyes begging him to **run.**_

And then there was nothing.


	2. Over and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence gets under Taeyong’s skin. It eats away at the edges of his sanity until he’s silently begging for some sound. Anything but this unbearable silence.
> 
> Then, “Everything is alright.” 
> 
> “Father?”
> 
> “Everything is quite alright, my little prince.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Chapter two is finally here <3 we get to meet the Emperor in this one, and he's not quite what you'd expect. Enjoy :D

Taeyong awakens much like he did this morning: to a vibrant ceiling of elaborate paintings, but without the sunlight streaming through the windows. 

The sun is sinking in the distant horizon, and Taeyong finds himself drawn to the window. From up here, the ground seems thousands of miles away. The tall towers of the Capitol’s heart crowned the sprawling city like a pile of jewels, and the commoner buildings are tiny below, their owners but ants from the upper levels of the Grand Palace. The shadows stretch longer with each second, the crevices and alleyways of the streets darkening into obscurity.

The dying light of the sun is a defiant torch behind the mountains that jut up in the far distance - the Altor Peaks. They got their name from a dead language, _Altor_ meaning protector. They enclose the plains that surround the Capitol, making it hard for any enemy to strike at the Empire’s heart. The only way one can even hope to reach the Capitol’s gates is to journey through the Four Princes Pass, guarded by four gates: Gate of Shadow, Flame, Song, and Light. 

As the last of the light is swallowed by the black sky, the sun relinquishes its heavenly throne to the moon. It’s a serene thing, a perfect sphere that sets the world alight in the most gentle silver light.

Taeyong’s reverie is interrupted by the door opening gently. 

“You’re back on your feet, your highness,” Jungwoo smiles, delicately carrying a lamp in his hands. He strides over to the nearest candle, lighting it with a match. “It must be the tea.”

“I’m sure it’s the tea,” Taeyong says, not moving. He waits for the cleric to light the last candle, at which point he blows out the flame on the match and daintily sets it upon a saucer. 

Jungwoo looks tired, Taeyong notes.

“Have any of your memories returned?”

“No,” Taeyong says, and Jungwoo deflates a little. He frowns, as if he can’t help but pull down the corners of his lips. “Not the memories the Magistrate would want at least. But the little things are coming back to me. Names and places, small things I’ve unknowingly pushed into the dark parts of my mind.” 

“That’s good to hear, your highness.” Jungwoo brightens a little. “While you were asleep, I scoured your mind again. For answers, anything.”

“And?”

“You’d be glad to know that nothing’s wrong with your body, not your arms, your heart, anything south of the head. But when I try to access your mind, it’s as if I face an iron gate that refuses to be opened.” 

Jungwoo’s frustration shows in the furrow of his brow. His eyes are pointed towards the ground, his shoulders strung up by an unperceived tension. 

“What does that mean?”

“It could mean that the trauma of you… of the memory of- of what happened was too great and forced your mind to prevent you from accessing it, like some sort of last resort. Your mind could have reacted in that way to protect you, only that by blocking out that part of your mind, it unknowingly blocked out other portions too.” Jungwoo holds his hands together, seemingly for his own comfort. “But the thing about people like us, people like _you_ particularly, is that not everything can be explained with the laws of the natural world. We’re beings of magic, you see, something we don’t fully understand, though we try to. Princes especially are an anomaly. You’re conduits of magic, so powerful and so abundant with energies that you seem to transcend whatever law has been set on Haven.”

Taeyong sighs, his mind hurting at this dump of information. Although, when he thinks about it, nothing Jungwoo had said was anything he was particularly foreign to. 

“I can’t help but feel sorry that you’re the one suffering at my expense.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand, your highness. Healing you is not a burden. It is a great honor and I intend to deliver my best. It’ll take time, that’s all. I’ll be glad to help you get better, even if it means shedding a little sweat. Besides, I am duty-bound. The Emperor himself has trusted me with your recovery.”

Jungwoo smiles then, and the exhaustion that hangs off of him disappears if only for a moment. Taeyong returns it with as much gratitude as he can muster. 

“I see images in my head, Jungwoo.” Taeyong turns back to the moon and the night sky, as if he could find his memories strewn among the stars. “I haven’t any idea what they mean.”

“Images?”

Taeyong debates telling him of the dagger he sees in his hands, but he takes one look at the cleric and decides that he must be greedy with his trust. He can’t afford to be rash now. Instead, what comes to mind is the ghostly flower, it’s dark green stem crowned with petals of deathly black.

“Does a black rose mean anything to you?”

Jungwoo’s eyes widen at once, his back straightening as if a watchful pair of eyes had suddenly locked onto him. 

“We don’t mention that flower here, lest you want to be convicted of something just as heinous as kinslaying. _Treason._ ” A new emotion settles onto Jungwoo’s face: concern. “Beyond the borders lies the Kingdom of the Black Rose. They are the Empire’s sworn enemies, by the Emperor’s decree. I suggest you don’t speak of it again, most especially not in the Emperor’s presence, your highness.”

“Forgive me,” Taeyong says, more curious than anything else. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jungwoo.”

“It’s quite alright,” the cleric says, pouring a cup of tea for the prince. “It’s not a subject often talked about. Not within these walls at least. Speaking of the black rose brings around ill luck, one way or another. Now, speaking of colored things. Pink tea, you can’t ever go wrong with it.”

Taeyong gratefully accepts the cup, the liquid warm rather than hot, and the steam that rises from it is wispy. Their conversation had allowed the tea to sit and cool, it seems. 

A knock comes on the door. It’s brief. Two raps, then silence.

“Come in,” Taeyong announces, looking at Jungwoo to see if the cleric knew who was behind the door. He’s met only with a clueless look. 

The door opens, and Jaehyun appears in the doorway. 

“Good evening, your highness,” Jaehyun bows, then nods in Jungwoo’s direction. “Jungwoo.”

“What brings you here, general?”

“Your presence has been requested at the dining hall, your highness.”

Taeyong straightens. “By whom?”

“The Emperor.”

All thoughts of hunger are pushed aside as Taeyong’s mind dwells on the enigmatic figure that is the Emperor, his father. 

“Very well,” he says, distracted. “I’ll get appropriately dressed, then.”

Taeyong knows who his father is. Sunjong, first Emperor of the Empire. Sire of the four princes. But for some reason, Taeyong ponders, he can’t remember much more than that. 

-

“It’s good to see a familiar face again,” Taeyong says as Jaehyun leads him to the dining hall. 

The general is walking a few paces ahead of the prince. Taeyong is perplexed for a moment, because he can’t read Jaehyun as well as he can read other people. His back is turned to the prince, his posture upright, muscles moving in coordinated and calculated motions even if they’re just walking down the hallway. Whether it’s tension or an overt sense of duty, Taeyong could not tell. 

Jaehyun only spares him a brief glance. “The Emperor has assigned me as your personal guard, your highness.”

“That means we’ll be seeing each other more often.”

“It does.”

“Shall we drop the formalities, then?” 

They stop in front of a set of golden doors that stretch from the floor to nearly the ceiling. It’s such a grand flaunting of wealth that Taeyong almost feels uncomfortable.

“I don’t see the point in doing so, your highness. My job is to protect you.”

“By protecting me, you’ll be spending my days by my side. We’ll become friends at the least.” Taeyong smiles, but it isn’t returned. “Friends don’t call each other by their titles.”

There’s silence, and usually by this time, Taeyong would already have read the lines on Jaehyun’s face, made deductions based on the look in his eyes or the fidgeting of his fingers. But Jaehyun is still, so perfectly still like a marble statue that bears no cracks, no flaws. He’s impenetrable, and Taeyong doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“The Emperor awaits you, my prince,” Jaehyun says finally, reaching out to the door and pushing it open. “Have a pleasant dinner.”

The candlelight pours out of the crack in the doorway in a flood of amber. 

_So impenetrable,_ Taeyong thinks. Then, he smiles. It’s a common smile, one he reserves for acquaintances and the people he encounters in passing. “Thank you, Jaehyun.”

“My pleasure, your highness.”

Taeyong steps into the dining hall, alone, and at once he is greeted by a table that could fit an entire family and several dozen of their extended relatives. The hall is amazing in length, its tall walls adorned by banners of gold, its ceilings lit by chandeliers of unrivalled majesty. Long windows are carved into the walls so that the sky beyond could be admired by anyone who dined.

The Emperor sits at the head of the table, and it takes a while for Taeyong to reach him. The closer Taeyong gets, the louder his heart seems to beat. 

“Father,” Taeyong kneels.

“Rise, my son.” A hand rests on his shoulder. Even encased in thick gloves, an unnatural coldness still seeps from the Emperor’s fingers. “Sit, and dine with me.”

His father is a true anomaly, Taeyong thinks as he settles into his seat. Not because he’s a being of incomprehensible magic, and not because he’s the single most powerful person in the Empire. 

It’s because Emperor Sunjong, First of the Empire, has lived for hundreds of years and yet the sands of time haven’t grazed him one bit. 

Sunjong is golden-eyed and pale-skinned. His sharp face is framed by long strands of silver hair that reach up to his waist. For all these perfections, there wasn’t even a single flaw. Not even a stubble on his chin, not a wrinkle beneath his eyes. No lines on his face, no hidden exhaustion clinging to his bones. 

As Taeyong sits there, dining at the same table as his father, he wonders if he really knows this man at all.

“How are you, my little prince?”

The question startles Taeyong, who had just been getting used to the silence.

“I’m alright,” Taeyong manages. “My memory escapes me.”

“The Clergy anticipated that much. How is the cleric that is tending to you? Are they doing a good job?”

“Yes, he’s caring for me splendidly, father.” 

Taeyong watches as his father bites into a chunk of meat, paying no regard to the juices that stain and stream down his chin. “That’s good to hear. I’ve arranged for you a visit to the solar priestess. Their sun magicks should shed some light on this darkened mind of yours.” 

“Thank you, father.” Taeyong mindlessly pushes his food around with his fork, a question bubbling up his throat. “Father?”

“Yes, my little prince?”

“Do you know what happened to me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Such brief answers. Such indifference. Sunjong, like Jaehyun, is impenetrable, but not in the way the general is. There’s something different, something off.

“You’re not cross with me?”

Sunjong reaches for a chalice of deep purple wine, gulping a portion of it down. “What reason would I have to be cross with you?”

“I’m being charged with the murder of my own brother,” Taeyong pauses, and with further thought, he adds, “One of your sons. The Magistrate seems quite convinced that I am guilty.”

The silence that follows gets under Taeyong’s skin. It eats away at the edges of his sanity until he’s silently begging for some _sound._ Anything but this unbearable silence.

Then, “Everything is alright.” 

“Father?”

“Everything is quite alright, my little prince.”

His father says nothing else to him for the rest of the dinner, save for the brief farewell he bids Taeyong with on his way out of the dining room. By then, the moon has soared far up into the sky, and still, Taeyong has resolved little of the turmoil stirring up chaos in the depths of his mind. 

Jaehyun walks him back to his room, but Taeyong is too occupied, too tired to make any attempt at conversation. So, they drift through the hallways like ghosts, quiet and steady as their feet trace the way back to the Prince’s room up in the Palace towers.

Taeyong bids Jaehyun good night before closing the door, barely registering the general’s brief reply before he wades into the comfort of his room, where nearly everything seems familiar - a drastic improvement compared to this morning’s confusion. 

A steaming pot of tea rests by his bedside, and Taeyong makes a note in his mind to appropriately thank Jungwoo when they see each other tomorrow. 

The prince blows the candles out one by one, and like a phantom he sinks into the softness of his cushions, slinking under the cover of the blanket, where sleep claims him not much longer after he settles. 

The dreams come not long after.

-

_A black rose, resolutely staying intact in the middle of a blazing inferno. In the distance, there is a song. So far that the sound is indecipherable. At the edge of all the flames, there are creeping shadows. The shadows reach toward Taeyong until he’s consumed by darkness, and he’s free-falling in nothingness. Falling forever, with no end in sight._

_From a castle of skulls, a winged being watches._

-

Taeyong wakes with a shiver long before the sun has risen. His waking at an unorthodox hour, he finds out as he sits up in his bed, is courtesy of an open window. The shutters, it seems, had come unlocked during the night. For what reason, only the moon could know. 

Taeyong strides over to the window, a chill settling over and under his skin, and he wraps himself in his arms even as he returns to his bed. 

He lights a candle for warmth, and it casts a defiant amber light in the sea of shadow that had descended upon his room. It draws his attention to a parchment on his bedside table. It hadn’t been there when he slept. 

Now, Taeyong finds that he’s feeling chills for an entirely different reason.

With hesitant fingers he takes the parchment and holds it up to the candlelight.

_Go to the gardens. Find the Etheria. You can’t miss it._

_X._

Taeyong doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, doesn’t know what higher being whispers in his ear and tells him to go, but there, in the dark of night and with only the moon as his witness, Taeyong slips past his bedroom door and starts making his way to the Palace gardens.

-

Taeyong finds the gardens with only a little difficulty. He finds that he knows the palace hallways much better than he initially thought. It came back to him like pieces of a puzzle, with every new hallway being a new piece until he’s able to put it all together.

The gardens are by no means a small place. It’s at the heart of the palace, perhaps the only part not enclosed by a high roof and ceiling. It’s been opened up to the sky, and the very same cold breeze that woke Taeyong up pooled in abundance at the gardens.

There are rows upon rows of shrubbery, a myriad of flowers nestled between all kinds of leaves. Marble statues stand watch over the plants like some sort of ghastly sentinels, unmoving and aglow with silver moonlight. Their eyes seem to follow the prince that treads the winding paths.

Taeyong’s meandering brings him to the heart of the garden, and only now does Taeyong understand the message. It’s a grove of trees, their branches an ashen white, crowded with leaves and flowers that are as pink as the sunrise. In the middle of the grove sat the largest tree like a crown jewel. It was older, seemed sturdier, and seemed more ancient. Its trunk alone was thicker than a bundle of men, and its branches reached higher into the sky, into the spaces around it. 

A sweet scent wafts off the trees, carried to Taeyong’s nose by the constant breeze that ruffles his night-wear and gushes through his hair in soft bursts. 

He’s alone, and for a moment he wishes to be alone for as long as he would like. He feels at peace here. Enough that he needn’t worry about the void in his mind or the death sentence that looms over his head. 

“I used to love it here.”

Taeyong turns toward the voice, not startling the way he expects himself to. He finds a shadowy figure leaning against one of the Etheria trees, stepping into the moonlight with feline-like movements. 

“I still do,” continues the voice. “But Etherias don’t grow outside of this garden. A beautiful thing in a wicked place.”

“I know you,” Taeyong says, watching the man. His eyes are an unnatural grey, and they shine with a distinct cunning. He smiles at the prince, and it could have many meanings.

“Of course you do, Yongie. Is it true then? That you’ve lost your memory?”

The nickname triggers a distant memory, of a long-ago childhood spent playing mischievous pranks and tricks within the palace halls. Faded laughter echoes in Taeyong’s mind. 

“It’s true.”

“So they got you too, huh.” He tilts his head, observing Taeyong with sharp eyes. Sharper than the prince’s. “I don’t know what that means for the rest of us. Something bad, most likely. Well, anyway... You don’t remember me? I’ve half a mind to be insulted. You loved me. More than Doyoung or Yuta did, at least.”

Taeyong stares. “Ten?”

Ten smiles, and it’s genuine. No hidden meaning. No ulterior motive. It’s accompanied by a crinkling of the corners of his eyes and an upturn of the lips. 

“Hello, brother.”

Then, Taeyong remembers. 

_Long ago, there were four. Shadow was claimed by a tragedy, and so there were three._

“You’re alive?”

“Very much so,” Ten laughs. It’s a soft sound. He approaches Taeyong and takes his hand in his for proof. He squeezes lightly. “Is that the story they’ve spun? I died?”

Taeyong nods. The Prince of Shadow had been gone so long ago that now, he’s faded into myth and obscurity. Much like the shadows he is a prince of, he isn’t much seen or noticed, or talked about, really. Not after that day.

“When you disappeared all those years ago, father announced your death to the Empire. He did not tell us what killed you, or why. Just that you were gone.”

“Father is a cruel man. A monster, really.”

Taeyong does what feels right in that moment. He pulls Ten in by the hand and wraps him in an embrace. Ten latches on in an instant, as if he’d been banished from home and only now had he been granted reentry. A feeling pulses deep within Taeyong, a numb sort of pain, one that was cold and subtle and suffocating.

Longing.

“I think I’ve quite missed you,” Taeyong says, closing his eyes for a moment. 

Ten breathes out, his arms tightening around his brother. “I’d be sad if you didn’t.”

When they break apart, Taeyong finds that Ten’s eyes are shining wetly.

“How come you’re back?”

“I’m not. If Father says I’m dead then it stays that way. I can’t care less. But I came for you.” Then, urgency sets into his features. “We’re on borrowed time. There’s something you need to know, something I need to tell you before I leave. But before that, I need you to promise that you won’t tell _anyone_ about what happened here tonight. Not even Doyoung, okay?”

Taeyong doesn’t have the mind to refuse. “Alright, I promise. What is it?”

“You’re part of something big, Taeyong. Bigger than yourself, bigger than all of us. I can’t tell you everything right now, there’s so _little time,_ but know this.” From thin air or shadow, Ten conjures a black rose in his hand. He holds it up to view. “This is not your enemy. And about Yuta? It’s _not your fault.”_

Taeyong has a million questions, but no words come out. Ten’s eyes lock onto something behind Taeyong, and he starts walking backwards, back into the safety of the shadows beneath the Etheria trees.

Taeyong tries to follow, tries to reach out and stop him. “Ten, wait.”

“I’ll see you again, Yongie. Trust me.” Taeyong could barely make him out in the darkness now. “I love you.”

A blink is all it takes, and suddenly Taeyong is alone. The shadows are no longer tangible, his brother is no longer there. There are footsteps from behind him, and Taeyong recognizes the heavy, calculated footfalls.

“Your highness.”

Taeyong smooths his ruffled robes and placates his face into a blank expression before turning around. 

“Jaehyun.” 

The general looks just the slightest bit disheveled, his nightwear concealed by a coat that he’s draped over himself. Judging by his expression, Jaehyun doesn’t seem to have seen Ten, and Taeyong breathes a sigh of relief. The general has another coat in his arm, and he offers it to the prince. 

“The gardens are cold at this hour, my lord.”

Taeyong takes the coat, one of his own, he recognizes. He warms himself beneath the thick fabric. 

“I’m terribly sorry for dragging you out of bed like this. I’ve been nothing short of an inconvenience.”

“You didn’t, sire. It was my window,” Jaehyun exhales, and it fogs up the air. “It opened. The breeze woke me up.”

_Ten,_ Taeyong thinks. “Shall we head on up, then? I don’t feel comfortable keeping you away from your bed at this ungodly hour.”

The prince had already made his way several paces down the path when a thought occurs to him.

“How did you know where to find me?”

There’s silence for a few moments. Jaehyun’s footsteps behind Taeyong are constant.

“Just a feeling, sire.” Taeyong had expected it to end there, but Jaehyun continues. “I go to the gardens too at this time.”

Taeyong smiles.

“We’re more alike than we both thought, it seems.”

“I suppose so, your highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm black rose sus! kudos and comments are loved <3 please leave some of both if you're loving the story so far!


	3. Fading Into An Eternal Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re alright, I hope?” is the first thing Doyoung says to him. 
> 
> Taeyong smiles. “A bit out of shape, but I’m keeping it together.”
> 
> “I’m glad.” Doyoung puts the lute down, walking over to a coffee table. His eyes flick over to Taeyong in the middle of his actions, as if he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of his brother. “Tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go. Christmas is so near! Shall i drop two chapters on christmas for fun? Guess we'll see!

With the morning comes a sunrise as pink as the Etheria leaves that followed Taeyong to his dreams. He has breakfast in the dining hall, which is vastly different from the night before now that it was daytime. Sunlight flooded in from the tall windows, and the silverware and ceramics seemed to glow.

The seat his father occupied is glaringly empty, although Taeyong can’t find it in himself to miss his enigmatic presence.

_“Father is a cruel man. A monster, really.”_

The words haunt him all throughout the morning - even past breakfast, when he’s back in his room and he’s being told to get dressed for some meeting.

“Meeting? With who?”

“Your brother, your highness,” Jaehyun says. 

_Doyoung._

Taeyong gets dressed, almost hastily. After all, this is the same Doyoung who persuaded the entire Magistrate to postpone his trial. There’s a certain hunger that emerges in Taeyong, a hunger to see Doyoung and have that rush as his memories come back to him.

The Prince of Song doesn’t live in the palace, Taeyong finds out later, when they’re walking down the cobblestone streets of the Capitol’s inner circle. The path they take leads them to somewhere secluded and almost abandoned. No magisters, no scribes, not much of anyone, really. Jungwoo seems unnerved by this, and even Jaehyun seems to be on guard.

The building is simple enough. A sprawling mansion with a few towers. Heavy wooden doors that would be hell to push open. Rows and rows of windows. It would be dead silent if it isn’t for the stream of music coming from the open windows. 

It’s a melancholic little tune, not like fresh grief, no. This song spoke to Taeyong’s heart of resignation to many years of loneliness. A cruel kind of acceptance of the fact that circumstances are always dire. 

They approach the doors, and with a single rap on the knocker, they are dragged open.

A young boy ushers them into the well-lit insides of the house. Taeyong decides to call it a house, because when they step in, it’s so unmistakably homely.

The fireplace is lit, the cushions fluffed and soft. Soft candlelight reaches into every nook and cranny, making no room for shadow. There’s someone at work in the kitchen, judging by the savory smell wafting through the air. It would be the perfect scene, but the music is still there. Louder, this time. It echoes off the walls, seeps into the cracks. It encases the house in a somber mood, almost like a tomb. Not for people, but for loneliness.

The boy that leads them to the prince isn’t a servant. Taeyong could tell that much from his clothing. They were fine fabrics, not the finest, but not the ones the commoners would buy at the market.

Perhaps some kind of bard?

“Here you are, your highness,” the boy says, opening a door for them. “He’s inside.”

Taeyong pauses. “What’s your name?”

The boy looks surprised for a moment, and even as he bows he stutters. “Renjun, your highness. Huang Renjun. I’m a simple bard.”

“Thank you very much, Renjun.” Taeyong smiles gratefully.

“It’s no problem at all, your highness.”

Taeyong watches as the boy scurries off before turning to his companions. 

“I’d like to meet him alone, please,” Taeyong says.

Jungwoo nods. “Of course, your highness. The general and I will wait outside.”

Taeyong thanks them before venturing into the room.

The first thing he notices is the light, or the lack thereof. The thick, black curtains are nearly opaque.The windows are open, but the sunlight that streams in is scarce and dull. There’s a single candle lit in the center of the room. There’s an abundance of paintings that cram the walls. Those that could no longer fit into the walls are strewn across the floor. The paintings give the room an explosion of color, one that was borderline chaotic but still so unusually beautiful.

In the middle of it all, in a chair pulled to the center of the room, is the Prince of Song. The chair is faced towards the open windows, away from Taeyong. The prince doesn’t seem to notice Taeyong’s entry. He seems to have a lute nestled in his arms, fingers playing upon the strings with easy motions. From the doorway, the music he plays is pristine and clear, and Taeyong perceives the sound almost as if it’s coming from inside his head. 

Taeyong feels it too, now that he’s closer. A sense of cold, creeping up from the depths of his being. The ice-cold touch of loneliness, a blizzard that obscures all sunlight. Taeyong closes the door behind him with a click, and that’s when the music stops.

Taeyong is almost thankful for the relief it gives him. Relief from the frosty grasp of the prince’s song.

Doyoung rises from his chair and turns to Taeyong with calculating eyes. His silken robes are a captivating black, stark against his pale skin. The fabric flows down his body as effortlessly as a waterfall. 

“You’re alright, I hope?” is the first thing Doyoung says to him. 

Taeyong smiles. “A bit out of shape, but I’m keeping it together.”

“I’m glad.” Doyoung puts the lute down, walking over to a coffee table. His eyes flick over to Taeyong in the middle of his actions, as if he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of his brother. “Tea?”

“Is it pink?”

It’s Doyoung’s turn to smile, and Taeyong can’t wait to see more of it. 

-

There’s an abundance of flowers in the garden. White petals, yellow pollen. There doesn’t seem to be any method to the way in which they are planted. They occupy every swathe of soil, and the paths in between them are winding and random. 

“I quite like it here,” Doyoung says, sitting upon a bench that overlooks the garden. Taeyong sits beside him, a tiny space in between them. “The manor, I mean. It’s quiet.”

Taeyong hums. It _is_ quiet. Not even the birds dare to hum here. For what reason, Taeyong can only wonder.

“Your music scares away all the noise.”

“Oh. Hush, you.” Doyoung looks down into his cup of tea, as if searching for something in his own reflection. “I’m very glad you woke up, Taeyong.”

Taeyong realizes what this means. Had he not woken up, Doyoung would be the sole remaining prince. Without brothers, without anyone. Only a distant father as cold as the music his son plays. 

“Don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily.”

Doyoung chuckles, but it’s an uneasy sound.

“Before anything else, I want you to know that I don’t blame you.”

“For Yuta?” Taeyong looks at Doyoung and that face of his. Pinched with worry, and concern, and everything chaotic, everything that spells turmoil.

Doyoung nods. “I refuse to believe that you’re capable of such a thing. Not when… not when you protected him so fiercely.”

“Protected?”

“They say you’re the bravest, but I don’t think so. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I think Yuta was- _is_ the bravest of us. So fearless, that man. It’s sad he didn’t have much of the wits to back it up though. Got himself in all sorts of trouble. Guess who got him out of it everytime?”

“...Me?”

Doyoung smiles, as if memories had just flashed in his mind. It happens to Taeyong too, although they’re blurry and nearly unrecognizable. He remembers Yuta, at least. Yuta and his disdain for authority, his hatred for those who abuse their power.

“You were the ever-reliable big brother.” Doyoung looks at Taeyong, eyes kinder now. “Anyway, I suspect some sort of plot. Haven knows we don’t have a shortage of those around here.”

“Everyone says my memories disappeared, but I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“They haven’t disappeared. They’re _there._ I know they are.” Taeyong closes his eyes, breathing out unevenly. “But for some reason, I seem to have been locked out. I know, it’s absolutely insane, being locked out of my own mind. But I don’t… it’s almost as if someone intended this.”

“Is it magic, do you think?”

“We’re paying a visit to the solar priestess, so I guess I’ll find out there. Would you like to come?”

Doyoung shakes his head. “Oh, please no. I’ve nothing against the priestess. She’s a lovely woman, really. But it’s those children that hang off of her. I just can’t seem to get used to all the noise.”

Taeyong laughs, though the sound is kept within his chest. He remembers now, a snippet of Doyoung that comes to the forefront of his mind. 

“I recall. You loathe children with a passion.”

“Rascals, most of them.” Doyoung grimaces. “Not the company I’d like to keep.”

“It’s mutual, I think.”

An inquisitive sound comes from Doyoung’s throat.

“About the company, I mean,” Taeyong says, taking a sip of tea. “I doubt children would like to accompany a man who does nothing but sulk with his lute in a dusty room in some mansion. Children like to play, not sob, you know.”

“Look at you,” Doyoung narrows his eyes at him, and although it’s meant to be threatening, it’s dampened by the smile spreading on his lips. “You’re barely awake for two days and you’re as mouthy as you ever were.” 

Taeyong laughs, and Doyoung mirrors the sound. But as with all things concerning Doyoung, the happiness is meant to be brief. 

“Besides,” Doyoung begins, quieting. “There's a good reason for it, I think. I’d hate for you to judge me.”

“Oh, Doyoung, I’m not judging you, I promise. Just good fun, that’s all.” Taeyong cautions a look at his brother. “What is it? The reason, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Shadow, I Await Thee.” Doyoung says the words as if they were an exhale. 

“What?”

“Shadow, I Await Thee,” he repeats, looking at Taeyong, then up at the sky. “It’s the title of the song I was playing when you found me.”

 _Shadow._ “Ten?”

Doyoung nods solemnly. “There’s a story I don’t much tell. Actually, I haven’t told anyone at all. Anyway, it was one autumn night when…”

-

West Manor was a terribly austere house. The thought runs around in Ten’s mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He glowered as he approached the imposing structure. It was all sharp lines, brick walls, and no color. No flowers in the lawn or backyard. Taeyong and Yuta said it was homely, but the Prince of Shadow begged to differ. He makes a habit of avoiding the manor as much as he could, but on this rainy night, there was simply no other choice.

He rapped on the knocker, thrice in succession. 

“Must you knock so loud?” Doyoung dragged the door open, scowling at his brother. 

“I need your help,” Ten said without preamble, striding inside without so much as an invitation.

Doyoung sputtered at the dark brown trail his footprints left. “You’re getting mud on the carpet!”

 _“I need your help!”_ Ten nearly yelled, and he’s desperate this time. Even the headstrong Prince of Song stopped in his tracks.

“Ten?” He sobered from his nagging, coming closer now. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to get out.”

“Of where?”

“The Capitol. The Empire. I need to get away from father,” Ten paced in circles, delirious almost. “I need to get away from him or he’ll kill me. He’ll kill me with his own hands.” 

“Hold on,” Doyoung ushered Ten into the living room and sat his shivering body in front of the crackling fireplace. “You have to tell me what’s happening.”

“I can’t do that,” Ten whispered. “Please, Doyoung. Just help me get out, and you’ll never hear from me again. I won’t muddy the carpet anymore, or knock loudly on your door in the dead of night, or cause you any more trouble, Doyoung. Just, please. I need to leave.” 

“But… why me?”

“Taeyong and Yuta aren’t here, and- and you’re the only one father trusts. He would never suspect you.”

In that moment, a storm raged inside Doyoung, a battle of sorts. Shall he give up his brother and keep his loyalty? Or shall blood matter more in this moment? Doyoung looked into Ten’s eyes and saw a swirling hurricane of shadows. So chaotic, so turbulent. So destructive.

A hurricane deals damage, uprooting all in its path. Destroying all it comes into contact with. 

“I can’t help you,” Doyoung decided. “It would be best for everyone.”

“What?” Ten recoiled from him, from his touch, from his presence. He backed away as if Doyoung was some wild, feral animal hunting him down. “Doyoung, I know we never got along, but-”

“I can’t help you, Ten! Can you hear yourself? Father will kill you with his own hands? What kind of mania has gotten into you? And to think that you come running to me only when you need to get yourself out of some trouble. How insulting,” Doyoung spat. With widened eyes and furrowed brows, he matched Ten’s deliria with sharp, cutting fury. “I don’t know what it is that you’ve managed to get yourself into this time, but I will not get involved. It’s time you learned how to clean up your own messes.”

Doyoung couldn’t mistake the look on Ten’s face at that moment. A look of absolute betrayal. An obscene question lingered unspoken in the air. 

_Are you really my brother?_

“Ten–“ Doyoung tried.

“Save it.” Ten was already stomping towards the door, an angry shadow, a resentful spectre. 

“Wait, at least take this coat! It’s pouring outside!”

But Ten didn’t turn around, didn't snatch the coat from his fingers. He continued on down the cobblestone path, the rain beating mercilessly on his skin, soaking through his clothing. Doyoung watched him walk away until he’s but a shadow in the darkness of the streets. 

The worry ate away at Doyoung later on, the regret having pooled in his stomach like a searing bath of acid. He spent the night up by the window in the manor’s highest tower, eyes carefully watching the gates, the streets, hoping to get a glimpse of some shadow darting through the alleyways. 

He did not see anything. The moon arced higher into the sky and soon, sleep came to claim the prince. 

Doyoung was out of sorts. He had fallen asleep by the window, waiting. When he woke the next morning he tried to convince himself that he saw something, someone. But when the Executioner came knocking at the door with a scroll from the Emperor, an iron claw snapped down on his heart. 

Yukhei, his name was? A fine man, really. A pretty messenger to deliver the ugly news.

The morning passed by in a daze, like reality was made up of a collection of shadows that taunted him, jeered at him. 

The Prince of Song’s first instinct was to reach for his lute, and with skilled fingers he played upon the strings in easy motions. It was a new song, a new composition. 

-

“I was never a fan of the color black, I’ll have you know. So drab, so grim. But I wear it in his memory.” Doyoung stares at the rolling beds of flowers before them. “I do everything in his memory, actually. The flowers, the manor, the paintings. I mean I could paint, but never as good as him. When he passed, they found canvas upon canvas of his works. _What a shame,_ I thought, for all these masterpieces to just, I don’t know, be burned, thrown away, locked in some dungeon. They were pieces of him, you see. To me at least. I stuff myself in that room surrounded by his paintings, in nothing but the darkness, hoping that if I close my eyes and play my song, it’ll almost, _almost_ feel as if he’s right there.” 

Taeyong’s vision is blurred by tears he wasn’t expecting. “Doyoung.”

“Oh, spare me the pity big brother. And save your tears for a worthier occasion.” Doyoung smiles at him. A bittersweet smile. “It’s my fault, if anything.”

“Do you think father did it?”

“No doubt. Ten said so himself.”

“But why?”

Doyoung sighs, a ragged sound. “That, dear brother, I wonder as well. Power? Fear? Control? If it’s control, it would make sense. Submitting was never quite high up on Ten’s list of priorities. Ever the rebel, that one. But to kill him? That’s something only a monster would do.”

Ten’s voice rings in Taeyong’s ear. _A monster, really._

“You don’t think father is capable of being a monster?”

Doyoung looks at him, seriousness written into the weary features of his face. 

“If we’re being honest,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “He is more than capable. I wouldn’t trust him if I were you. You never did, anyway.” 

“That makes sense, I think.” A beat of silence passes. ”He doesn’t feel very fatherly, does he?”

Doyoung shakes his head. “Never the father, only the Emperor. We were raised by the palace staff, if anything. The cooks and the laundresses and the maids and the butlers. It’s probably better that way. I’d hate to be like father. So empty, so distant. He can be right in front of you and it’d still feel as if—“

“—as if he’s not there?” Taeyong breathes a sigh just recalling last night’s events. “I know what you mean. I had dinner with him last night, and he didn’t seem fazed at all when I told him I was being charged for… you know.”

Even now, Taeyong can’t bring himself to say the words. He shan’t ever. The words, even unspoken, feel repulsive on his tongue. 

“Be cautious around him, Taeyong.” Doyoung’s eyes are pleading now. ”I’d hate for you to- to end up like-“

“Doyoung.” Taeyong grasps at one of Doyoung’s hands, if only to ground the other man. “I’ll take care of myself.”

“You better,” Doyoung says uneasily. “Now, it’s time for you to go. Your cleric is going positively insane.”

Doyoung’s eyes follow Jungwoo’s distant figure, lingering in the outskirts of the garden as if he’s debating whether or not he should interrupt the two princes. 

Taeyong wishes he could tell Doyoung that Ten is alive, wishes so desperately to thaw the ice that had grown so viciously around his heart. But Taeyong made a promise, and he has to honor his word. So, he stands, bids his brother goodbye, perhaps holds his hand for a few moments just to indulge, and he walks away.

Doyoung watches his brother leave with wizened eyes. Surely, this can’t be the same prince that refused his own brother all those years ago. And yet, it is. 

This man on the bench is still the Doyoung who nags, although there’s less and less to nag, it seems. It’s still the Doyoung who’d play you a song when you’re down, the same one who loves flowers and art, the same one who appreciates color even if he now wears only one. 

Time, it seems, has a special way of eroding the jagged edges that make us so intolerable. While far from perfect, the Prince of Song has definitely been polished into a rare kind of gem. One whose value doesn’t lie in its color or shine, but its content.

Doyoung sits there in the safety of his garden long after he’d waved Taeyong off. He sits until his cup of tea goes cold twice over, until the sun races higher into the sky. He stays there, perfectly still, as songs spilling out from the windows begin and end and begin and end. 

His gaze stays locked on the flowers before him.

White petals, yellow pollen.An entire sea of them.

There are a few reasons for why West Manor is so named. Firstly, it lies in the west quarter of the Capitol, and faces the west. With its thin, weathered towers it catches the sunsets everyday. 

That’s the original meaning behind the name. It’s quite boring, Doyoung thought then.

The chance to create a new meaning came after Ten passed.

 _Zephyr,_ meaning west wind. The word also constitutes the first two syllables of a little-known flower in the Empire. 

_Zephyranthes,_ the rainflower.

Of all things that have meaning, this flower is the one that Doyoung values the most. You see, for all its white petals and yellow pollen, it means a number of things.

_You have my love._

_I must find forgiveness._

And above all, 

“I will never forget you,” Doyoung whispers.

**“Shadow, I Await Thee”**

**__** _Princes behold crowns,_   
_By blood we are bound._   
_A dark and noble knight,_   
_dressed in black, soul is white._

_This trespass is a sin,_   
_One that remains unforgiven._   
_Come through the door unbidden,_   
_Just once more, I beg._

_Grey eyed brother,_   
_come home to me._   
_Shadow, I await thee,_   
_in this Hell on Haven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor doie. leave a kudos to make him happier! find me on twitter @/yunqisix ^-^


	4. Where There Is No Escape.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to fight at the border," Yuta said. 
> 
> Taeyong poured two cups of tea and offered the other one to his brother. Yuta took the cup with hesitant hands, and the furrow of his brow faltered for a moment.
> 
> “When do you leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let’s take a trip back in time! the jaeyong will be coming very soon, i promise!

The Tower of Sol is a shining beacon of majesty. It’s a massive structure, piercing high into the sunlit sky. Its shining white walls are aglow, as if the very stone had captured the sun’s golden light. It’s surrounded by blocks of buildings that pale in comparison to the centerpiece, and yet they aren’t lacking in magnificence. 

Everything about this place is bright and elegant, so evocative of the sun they worship, so imbued with its light and warmth. Everything is so yellow, so golden, that Taeyong has half a mind to shield his eyes with the girth of his arm. 

Scribes in golden robes stream forth to and from the little golden doors on the buildings, milling off to run some errand or add a new piece of information to the vast library tended to by the solar priestess and her servants. 

Jungwoo knows his way around this part of the Capitol, so Taeyong lets him lead the way. Up close, the Tower of Sol is even more breathtaking, if that’s even possible. Its entrance alone is marked by a pair of golden doors, upon which images of the sun and its worshippers are engraved in elaborate carvings. The door is the height of several men, and will surely take several men to drag open.

When they walk through the entrance, the Solar Priestess can’t be missed.

Taeyong’s eyes catch her in an instant. She’s a captivating woman, the prince thinks. Hair black as night curls down to her waist. She wears a dress of glittering gold that nearly rivals the glimmering twin suns she has for eyes. 

She’s at the center of the room, and is the center of all of their attention. Even the starry-eyed children sitting around her daren’t cause the slightest trouble. 

She spots the Prince and his company, and promptly calls for one of her servants.

“Storytime is over, my young ones,” she says, rising from her stool. She smiles at the collective _awww_ that resounds through the room. “Go on now and follow Mage Haechan to the playgrounds, will you?”

The children rejoice at the mention of the playgrounds, crowding around a sun-tanned Mage who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but around the children. He shoots the Priestess a mean look before leading the children off in the direction of the playgrounds.

“Mean brat, that Haechan,” She says, approaching the three men. “Luckily, the children are meaner.”

Taeyong bows. “My lady.”

“Your highness,“ she smiles, dazzling and bright. She curtsies. “Kim Yongsun, Solar Priestess. I’m glad to have you here in our temple.”

“I’m glad to be here.”

“Right, let’s head on up, shall we? All the magic happens closer to the sun.” 

At the priestess’s invitation, they ascend the wide, winding staircase that leads them up the tower. The very air seems to buzz the higher they get, and the priestess’ skin catches more and more of the light.

They arrive at her study, a wide space near the top of the tower. The walls aren’t really walls. Every inch of them is covered with the shelves of bookcases, filled with volume upon volume about everything there is to know. Various instruments and strange apparatuses could be located throughout the room, all reminiscent of the sun either by design or by the pure yellow light that emanated from them. 

“Sit,” Yongsun prompts, pointing at a chair-like contraption that seems to run on gears and mechanisms. She heads over to a bookshelf, fetching a thick, large book that she doesn’t struggle with at all. “What I’m going to attempt on your highness today is an ancient kind of magic called mind-scrying. In the olden days, when the worshippers of the sun dealt with trauma, or perhaps a troubled mind, they would consult their shamans and perform this ritual. It’s meant to cast light upon the darker parts of your mind, although I should say, it doesn’t always work. I feel as if you should know this, your highness.”

“It’s still worth trying, isn’t it?” Taeyong asks.

“I would say so, yes.” Yongsun’s gaze shifts to Jungwoo, standing by one of the bookshelves. “I’d of course have to ask for your cleric’s consent, after all he’s the one taking care of you.”

Jungwoo pauses for a moment.

“Will it be painful for the prince, priestess?”

Taeyong softens, a certain kind of fondness blooming in his heart.

“No, I wouldn’t expect it to hurt at all. Physically, at least. The ritual may bring back some potentially harmful memories.”

“I suppose that can’t be avoided, then,” Jungwoo says, looking to the prince for affirmation. Taeyong nods. “I’m willing to pursue any solution, really. If it means aiding the prince in his recovery.”

“Very well. And the general?” She asks, turning to Jaehyun who had stationed himself by the doorway ever since they arrived at the study. “Anything to say?”

Jaehyun seems to hesitate for a moment, his eyes darting to the floor, to Jungwoo, to the priestess, then finally to Taeyong. 

“Take care of the prince, ma’am.” 

Taeyong smiles. “Don’t worry yourself, general. And you too, Jungwoo. I’m going to be perfectly fine.”

Yongsun instructs him to lean back in the chair, pulling on a lever that turns the chair into some kind of bed. In this position, a beam of sunlight strikes Taeyong directly in the face. A dull yellow coats his vision even as he closes his eyes. 

_It’s just sunlight,_ Taeyong thinks. And yet, as the light bears down on him, it sinks past his skin, penetrates deep into his skull, and it’s almost as if a tiny flame had been lit in the center of his mind. 

“First, we’ll extract the memories you have of the late lord of flames. If we’re able to bring him to the forefront of your mind, it may encourage the other ones to come out as well.” A light touch tickles his forehead. A finger, perhaps. “The funny thing about memories is that you don’t know that you know until, well, _you know.”_

Then, a pulling sensation, like a thread being dragged through the crevices of his mind. A scene plays out in Taeyong's head whether or not he wills it to.

-

Taeyong stood upright. It felt right to do so, as if curving his back just the slightest bit would have warranted some sort of punishment. He looked to his left, then his right. He stood in a line, with his brothers lined up to his left.

In front of them paced one of their father’s generals, brandishing a wooden stick in his hand.

This is martial training. One of many that they had before coming of age.

Ten’s eyes shined with some kind of mischievousness, as if he was imagining the general in an inappropriate situation. Doyoung seemed to be the only one taking the training session seriously. Next to Doyoung was Yuta, who wore a disapproving scowl on his face. 

The general didn’t miss it.

“You unhappy, your highness?” The old, bearded man looked bloated in his uniform, and his rough voice was thick with some kind of accent. “Got any complaints?”

“You’re a shit teacher,” Yuta said simply.

Doyoung gasps, and Taeyong could only look at Yuta with wide eyes. Ten seems to be holding back a laugh.

The general growled and seized the prince by the collar. He dragged the prince forward, and pushed him down onto his knees. He raised his wooden stick high into the air, preparing to bring it down with as much force as he could. A disgusting satisfaction settled into his ugly, wrinkled face.

“Why you little-” The stick whipped through the air with a crackle.

Taeyong moved before he realized. 

“Enough.” Taeyong caught the general’s wrist with his hand. 

The general stumbled backwards, his despicable eyes switching targets. He eyed the prince of light with the gaze of a predator. “Fine, then. You can take the beating for your brother. Don’t blame me if I break that pretty little face of yours.”

A shadow darted past the old man. Had Taeyong blinked, he would have missed it. Ten walked out from behind the general’s bulky form, holding the wooden stick in his hands with a contemplative look in his eye. 

“Look what I found,” Ten drawled as he dangled the stick in the general’s face.

The general shook in place, his hands balling into fists and his face reddening with frustration. If Taeyong thinks hard enough, he’d be able to see smoke puffing out of his ears. 

“Little rascals,” he bellowed. “Just you wait until tomorrow’s lecture. You’re in for a surprise.”

“Tomorrow’s lecture?” Doyoung asked, looking confused. “That can’t be right. See, I was under the impression that you were going to talk to the Emperor after today’s training, and that you were going to inform him of your resignation from your post. Won’t you?”

“Threatening me, eh? We’ll see what your father has-”

“-what father has to say about this?” Doyoung chuckles. Taeyong smiles. The prince of song’s strengths never did lie in his muscle or martial prowess, but his wholeness of mind and sharpness of tongue. “Who will he believe, I wonder? His four, beloved sons, or some old, irrelevant, rotting man who has long expended his usefulness in the battlefield, or in the court, or anywhere, really? Who are you to the Emperor again? A trusted adviser? I doubt he even remembers your name.” 

Doyoung took the wooden stick from Ten’s hands and shoved it against the general’s chest. “We’re having mercy on you, old man. You can resign and keep your dignity, or I can come crying at my father’s feet and have you banished to some lonely, desolate shack in a swamp by the borders. Take your pick.”

The four princes watched as the man hurried off to the door, sputtering and yelling and throwing up a commotion like some agitated child. 

“Good job, Doie,” Ten said, patting him on the back. Doyoung only sighed.

“Don’t call me that.”

Meanwhile, Yuta threw an arm around Taeyong’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling in that way of his. Then, he looked apologetic, only the slightest bit. “Sorry for causing you trouble.”

“No, you were right,” Taeyong said, melting further into Yuta’s touch. “He was a shit teacher.”

“Language!” Doyoung screeched. “How un-princely, honestly.”

“So uptight, Doie. This is why you’ll be lonely your entire life.”

Ten and Doyoung begin bickering, while Yuta and Taeyong watched with smiles. 

They’re just four. Four brothers, four boys barely of age. They’re young, naive, and know little of the world beyond the palace walls. But they’re complete. They’re together, and nothing makes Taeyong feel more powerful than having his three brothers by his side, with the entire world at their feet.

-

“Lovely memory, your highness,” Yongsun says, snapping him back to the present time. She pulls on the lever, and Taeyong sits up on the chair a little dazed. “Let’s give you some time to recover.”

“It felt so real just then,” Taeyong says, voice distant. “As if I’d just travelled back to that moment in time.”

“Memories constitute a part of magic often overlooked. They’re bound in mystery, and are often so personal that we daren’t come close at all. But I’ve found that memories, in the grasp of magic, can be some of the most powerful things we can wield.” Yongsun observes Taeyong with a wise smile and kind eyes. “Our greatest moments are the ones triggered by a memory, be it good or bad. It makes sense, don’t you find?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” the prince says, recalling. _—Nothing makes Taeyong feel more powerful than having his three brothers by his side, with the entire world at their feet._ “I think I’m ready for the next one.”

Yongsun nods, and again, Taeyong settles into the chair as it reclines. The longing, the loneliness, and the drop of happiness that came with the previous memory are all brushed aside by the new one that the priestess ushers to his mind’s eye, and soon, his reality inches backward in time.

-

“I’m going to fight at the border.” 

Taeyong looked up at Yuta, at those ever so defiant amber eyes. It’s not his brother’s approval that Yuta sought, in fact he doesn’t seek anything at all. He’s giving Taeyong a heads-up, a warning in advance. 

Taeyong poured two cups of tea and offered the other one to his brother. Yuta took the cup with hesitant hands, and the furrow of his brow faltered for a moment.

“When do you leave?” 

Yuta sputtered, and Taeyong hid his smile behind the teacup. The prince of fire, it seemed, had not gotten to that part of the plan yet. 

“Soon,” Yuta said after a while. Then, finally conceding, he reluctantly brought his own cup to his lips. “You’re not opposed to it?”

“Dear brother,” Taeyong shook his head. “I know better than to contradict you.”

Yuta smirked. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

“Just promise me one thing, alright?” 

“Anything.”

“Come back alive,” Taeyong said, almost pleading, almost demanding. “For me. For Doyoung and Ten.”

Yuta considered him with an air of seriousness not so commonly found on the prince’s face. Taeyong was positively unnerved. Then, Yuta smirked, and it’s as if everything’s back to normal.

“Do you have so little trust in my martial prowess? I’m an absolute demon with the sword.” Yuta looked at Taeyong with a challenging glint in his eye. “Do you want me to prove it to you? Spar with me, perhaps?”

Now that was a challenge Taeyong wouldn’t so easily concede to brother. 

“You’re going to regret that.” 

Yuta’s already striding out the door, and his voice echoed from the hallway. “I guess we’ll see!”

The time for Yuta’s departure came faster than anyone would’ve liked. The Emperor and the three princes came to send him off at the palace steps, and a crowd had gathered to bid farewell to their courageous Prince of Flames. Yuta mounted his horse with a proud grin and waved at the dazzled onlookers. 

“Look at him,” Doyoung scoffed. “So happy to be riding off to imminent death. Only he could be capable of such rashness.”

“You’re just jealous he’s got the balls for war,” Ten quipped..

Taeyong hid a smile by ducking his head. “Hush now, both of you. Lest you want a lecture from father before it’s even noon.” 

Yuta waved at them, smiling so brightly that it’s impossible not to mirror it. 

“He’s going to be alright,” Doyoung said then, and Taeyong tries to believe it.

 _Blind faith,_ Taeyong thought to himself as Yuta rode past the gates with a company of men. 

Taeyong feels it then, an inkling, a hunch. A feeling that the moment Yuta left the walls of the Capitol, nothing would ever be the same. Not for the four princes, and certainly not for the Empire they serve.

Two winters passed before they knew it, and Haven was barely ushering in the third when the gates granted entry to one Prince of Flames. It was in the dead of night, and the moon was at its highest in the sky. Taeyong wouldn’t even have known that his brother was back had he not been sleeplessly standing by his bedroom window watching the horizon, and the gates, and the walls. Anything and everything in sight.

Taeyong awaited him at the palace steps. It’s funny, Taeyong thinks. He’s standing in the same spot after nearly three years, and nearly nothing had changed about the Capitol, or the steps of the palace. No, change doesn’t manifest so fully in the physical things. 

It showed in the intangible parts of us. 

There was no crowd, no Emperor. No Doyoung, no Ten. Just the dark cover of night, the watchful moon and her stars, and the approaching figure of Yuta, a mere phantom in the distance. 

Taeyong waited expectantly, standing firmly in place. He put a smile on his face. Shall he open his arms, ask for an embrace? Shall he start with a greeting? Perhaps ask if he is well?

But Yuta got closer, and Taeyong’s face fell. 

“Yuta?” Taeyong called once he was close enough. “Are you alr-”

Yuta wordlessly fell to his knees at Taeyong’s feet. Taeyong scrambled to hold him up, but the prince found himself pulled down to the ground beside his brother. He placed his hands on Yuta’s shoulders to steady him. 

Yuta’s head is bowed, his hair obscuring his face in ominous shadow. Taeyong set a gentle hand on Yuta’s jaw and tilted his face up to the light. 

What Taeyong saw right there unleashed a maelstrom inside him. A turbulent storm that struck mighty thunder upon the crumbling walls of his heart.

It’s the same face. The same Yuta. But it’s as if melancholia had seeped into his skin. He was cold beneath Taeyong’s touch. Those infernos he had for eyes were now just a withered flame. 

Yuta’s hands came up to touch Taeyong’s face, as if to make sure his brother was real and not just some vision his mind had cruelly conjured. Then, he lurched forward, and his head fell against Taeyong’s chest. Yuta’s hands dig into the fabric of his brother’s robes, holding on for dear life. 

Yuta’s shoulders began to shake as he wept against Taeyong’s chest, and Taeyong could only put his arms around his brother in a futile attempt to restore the warmth that had bled from him. 

There, among the palace steps, under the dark cover of night and the watchful moon and her stars, Taeyong wondered what hideous, vicious monster could have caused the once-infallible Prince of Flames to fall so far from grace. 

“Has he spoken to you?” Doyoung held a cup of tea in his hands, if only to find comfort in the warmth. Doyoung worried at his lip, and had it been anyone else, the prince surely would’ve nagged them for doing something so unprincely. But the matter at hand did not prioritize the prim and proper, even Doyoung realized that.

“No,” Taeyong said briefly. “He doesn’t want to.”

“Well, he needs to tell us something. Otherwise, how does he expect us to help him-”

Taeyong’s hands tightened around the book he’d been reading. He couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t recall the contents of the past hundred pages he’d been reading pointedly. 

“He needs time.” 

“It’s been three months, Taeyong-”

“Go on then,” Taeyong snapped. “Go on and storm into his room and nag him for answers until he starts loathing you for being so loud and invasive all the time. He’s been at war for three years, Doyoung. Three months is barely enough to recover from the horrors he could’ve faced. You’re his brother, can’t you understand that? You didn’t see what he saw at the border, and you didn’t see what _I saw_ the night he returned.” Taeyong exhales forcefully. “Haven, I can’t even understand this fucking book anymore.”

Taeyong sets the book down on the coffee table with a thud. His chest rose and fell with each exasperated breath, and he almost forgets that the younger brother who he’d just unleashed his pent-up inner turmoil on still stood there, unmoving.

“Right, then.” Doyoung sets his teacup down, voice quiet. He moves toward the door. 

“Doyoung-”

“No, it’s alright, Taeyong. You don’t have to apologize.” Doyoung stopped at the doorway with his back turned. He breathed out unevenly. “You obviously need some time to think, so I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry. ”

The door closed softly behind him, and Taeyong sighed. Ever since Yuta came back, none of them had been themselves, and Taeyong doesn’t know how to fix it. How to fix their crumbling family.

Another two months passed and Yuta stood in the doorway. 

“I leave again, in a fortnight.” Taeyong looked at him in surprise. He didn’t hear the door open. He’d been preoccupied watching the stars in the sky. “I felt as if I had to tell you.”

Taeyong considered him for a moment. “Do you want to? To go back to the border, I mean.”

Yuta closed the door behind him, venturing further into Taeyong’s room. He assumed his place opposite his brother, leaning against the other frame of the window. Taeyong raised an inquisitive eyebrow. This is the closest Yuta had been to him since the night he returned. 

Silence engulfed them, and Yuta’s eyes were focused on the distant horizon with a distinct emotion on his face. Resignation? curiosity? Taeyong could not tell.

“There are many things to be learned at the border. Many people to be helped. Many truths to uncover, hidden behind pretty, thorned lies,” Yuta says, releasing a loaded exhale. “No, brother, I do not want to go back. I would rather die than have to face those black mountains, that grey sky, those stinking, blood-thirsty men again. But I have to return for the people that need me.”

Then, Taeyong realized. Not resignation, not curiosity, but _duty._ The necessity of having to do what must be done in spite of your personal reservations. Yuta was never selfish, but just this once, Taeyong wished that he were. 

“Then I’ll come with you,” Taeyong said. He doesn’t know what possessed him to say it, only that the words left his mouth in an instant—and he didn't regret it a single bit, not for a second.

Yuta didn’t protest, didn't tell him to stay. Instead, Yuta gazed at him with eyes that seemed to be weighed down by the heavy burden of bitter wisdom. 

“If you wish to,” Yuta began, looking back at the mountains that separated the Capitol from the lands beyond. “Who am I to stop you?”

And that was that.

Months passed by in a mere blink of an eye in this dream. The walls of the palace folded in on themselves until they’re jagged, ash-black mountains set against a grey sky. 

Taeyong knew this place but for some reason can’t remember the name. He was on a battlement overlooking a shadowy valley. It was a wall, he realizes later. A massive one, almost a fortress. It blocked passage through the one route running through the mountains. 

The sound of metal against metal rang in Taeyong’s ears. Swords struck shields and crossed blades with other swords. Spears hurtled through the air and pierced their targets with sickening squelches. Torches crackled with fire, and smoke congested the death-laden air. 

This was war—barely a taste of it. The worst was yet to come. 

When they returned to the Capitol later that winter, only one brother awaited them at the palace steps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are you liking the story so far? leave your thoughts below <3 there is sooo much more to come!


	5. The Undoing,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not going to find anything interesting here. This is all public information,” says a voice. Taeyong startles, dropping the scroll. A tanned hand catches it, and Taeyong meets eyes with a familiar face. 
> 
> “Mage Haechan.”
> 
> Haechan smiles, with all the brightness of a rising sun. He moves in an elaborate bow. “Your highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter five.........is where things take a turn :D

“My memories are still intact,” Taeyong says, eyes narrowing as he stares out the window. The dying sun glares back at him with half the intensity of his eyes. Taeyong wishes that he too could just disappear behind the horizon. “How odd.”

Jungwoo looks at him with concern, and Taeyong pointedly ignores his gaze. 

“It is most worrying my lord,” Jungwoo affirms, his voice tainted with hesitation. “But there is hope yet.”

“You need not concern yourself with troubling me further, Jungwoo. Do not attempt to soften the blows. I am not a child. It is perfectly fine to speak of things as they are, not what they could be,” Taeyong says, as gently as he could. Even then, he didn’t want Jungwoo to think that he’d wronged the prince. “So please. If my situation is dire, tell me.”

“Well,” Jungwoo begins, stuttering. He looks at Jaehyun, as if pleading for help, but the general only stares at him wordlessly. He sighs. “I think that someone tampered with your mind, your highness.”

“There we go,” Taeyong mutters. “Who is capable of such a thing?” 

“Any able sun-mage, hell, even a moon sorcerer could manage that. Although I observed the Priestess’ magics earlier, and it seemed that even she could not penetrate that section of your mind. It may seem absurd of me to suggest this, sire, but it may be possible that a certain part of your mind, the one that stores your memories of the night prior to, during, and after the murder of your brother, has been deliberately shut out—including to you.” 

Taeyong nods as Jungwoo speaks, and his reasonings, despite being preposterous, are not impossible. Considering their current luck with solving the mystery of Taeyong’s memories, it may even seem plausible. 

The moon draws higher into the night sky, and at the same time the exhaustion of the day weighed upon them all and dragged their shoulders down, goading their eyelids to close. 

“We’ll discuss this further tomorrow with the priestess,” Taeyong says. “You may leave me. Do get some rest, you deserve it.”

Jungwoo nods, bowing. “Good night, your highness.”

“General, a word?” Taeyong stands idly by his bedroom window, eyes shifting to Jungwoo as Jaehyun pauses by the doorway. “Alone, please.”

Jungwoo nods in understanding before breezing out the door, not failing to remind the prince to take his tea before bed. A cool draft of wind rustles the curtains, making Taeyong mindlessly run his hands over his arms to keep himself warm. 

“Your highness?”

Taeyong gleans a look of uncertainty on the general’s face. While it may not be the brightest of emotions, at least there’s something there. 

“Tea?” Taeyong offers, if only to buy himself some time to collect his thoughts. 

“No thanks, my lord. I don’t take kindly to Etheria.”

“I hope I’m not keeping you from something important. I’d hate to get in the way of your duties.”

“Not at all. My duty is to you, your highness.”

Taeyong nods. They’d left the solar priestess and her tower right before sunset, having exhausted her energies in an attempt to recover the prince’s memories. Taeyong went back to the palace knowing more, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t quite know what to make of what he just learned.

“I just have a question, if you don’t mind. And please don’t hesitate to tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’m afraid it’s about something rather grim.” Taeyong searches Jaehyun’s face for any sign of hesitance or discomfort, and he presses on when he doesn’t find anything except that cool, impenetrable facade. “It’s about the war, you see. I assumed that you’d know what it’s like, being a general and all.”

At any given moment in time, there is one single general stationed at the Capitol, trusted with the defense of the Empire’s heart. Taeyong recalls this much from their martial training. It is a position not so easily granted upon any man, and thus would require a wealth of experience and merit. Unofficially, the man who holds this position is the most highly-regarded war hero in the Empire.

That man is Jaehyun, and Taeyong would be lying if he were to say that he wasn’t at least slightly curious about this man and how he got there.

Jaehyun is searching for words, and his mouth hangs open just the slightest bit as he seems to struggle with what to say and how to say it.

“You’re at liberty to talk casually, you know,” Taeyong says. “If it’ll make it easier for you to speak, I really don’t mind if you forgo the formalities.”

Jaehyun frowns, clearly affronted at the thought of blurring the line between them. The one that separates Taeyong from Jaehyun as a prince he is duty-bound to rather than a friend or companion. But a second passes, and the protest dies on his tongue. 

Just this time, the general concedes to the prince’s wishes.

“Very well,” Jaehyun says. “The fighting occurs only at one place, mostly. A fortress that guards the path that leads to the Empire. Every soldier in the Empire has been to the Keep at least once. It’s the only place they could be if, like your brother, they wanted to fight. It’s a dark place.”

“You served there?”

“I did. For twelve years.”

Taeyong can’t help the look of surprise on his face. If his calculations were correct, Jaehyun should only be in his mid-twenties, at least. That means that—

“You’ve been fighting since you were a child?”

Jaehyun only nods. 

“I ran errands for the soldiers, at first. I was ten. They let me handle the swords not long after, and I taught myself how to fight by watching the men. A time came when some kind of plague descended, no one knows why, or where it came from, or how to treat it. Half the garrison died. Only the children were left unaffected. Young boys and girls like me who had nowhere else to be. The enemy came one night, at a time when the sickness was at its worst. The Lord of the Keep told the remaining men to wake the children. They put us in the armor of dead men and thrust swords and shields into our hands. Most of those kids couldn’t even carry those metal things, let alone fight with them. I was lucky to survive that night.” 

Taeyong is at a loss for words. In shock, he only manages a small, “Jaehyun, I am so sorry.”

“It’s all over and done, sire. The truth is, war isn’t as glorious as most people make it out to be. It’s not glorious at all. It’s not honorable, or beautiful, or anything good. It’s the most vile thing anyone could ever experience.”

Taeyong couldn’t agree more. After all, his brother came back from the war as a shadow of his former self. And the prince is sure that his own visit to the border wasn’t pleasant as well.

“Were you there?” Taeyong asks. “When my brother and I went to the border to fight, I mean. Judging by the priestesses’ calculations, that would’ve been a little over a year ago.”

“I was stationed in the Capitol by then, sire.” 

A beat of silence passes. The moon rises higher in the night sky. Somewhere out there, the lunar priestess would be performing her nightly rituals.

“The border changes you, doesn’t it?” Taeyong looks at Jaehyun, solemn. “For better or worse. Worse, mostly.”

“I would say so. Being there opens your eyes, I think. You’ll find that the world is much darker than you think it is.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says distractedly. Then, a thought occurs to him, a question. “Jaehyun, I can trust you, right?” 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to say those words, perhaps it’s the way his mind had been jarred and stirred and shaken since he woke up, but it just felt right. Taeyong used his heart and mind in balance anyway, half-thinking half-feeling. 

“You can place your full confidence in me, your highness.”

Taeyong tries not to deflate at the return of the honorific.

“Good,” he says anyway. “I shall be very disappointed if that were to be untrue.” 

“I wouldn’t ever wish to disappoint you, sire.”

Taeyong smiles. “Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Well then,” Taeyong breathes a sigh. “The night isn’t so young anymore. Get some sleep, Jaehyun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a polite farewell, the general bids him goodnight and disappears behind the door. Jaehyun was so calm, it almost unnerved Taeyong. Even talking about the war he spent twelve years fighting, Jaehyun’s face did not break once in their conversation. He was still—like the clear, calm surface of a pond without ripples. 

The period of silence that comes after lets Taeyong’s mind wander erratically. He feels more and more like himself, even just two days after he’d woken up. And yet, there is a section of his mind so adamantly sheathed in darkness, and he can’t help but loathingly wonder when he’d find the answers, or _where._

_The Hall of Records._

The words come like a quiet breeze, whispered so quietly that Taeyong doesn’t even mind it the first time it happens. It takes him a moment to realize that the voice is not his own.

Then, louder: _Go now. Find what you are looking for._

What he’s looking for? 

_The truth._

The voice is barely there. It’s misshapen, distant, disembodied. But it ignites in Taeyong a familiar spark of embers. He need not question it, not when he sees Yuta’s face in his head when he hears that voice. 

His brother may not be there and his sanity may very well have escaped him some time ago, but Taeyong’s feet lead him out his bedroom door and without further thought, the prince decides that now is not the time to be rational. How could he be, when everything around him lacks clarity? There is hardly a place for reason in a place like this. 

And so, he runs towards _un_ reason as his blind faith reaches new heights.

-

It’s an eternity later when he’s treading the empty streets that lead up to the Tower of Sol and its cluster of little buildings. At night, the tower is completely lifeless. The golden ichor that streamed unbridled through its alabaster walls during the day is completely gone, leaving behind a pale tower that stabbed at the starry night sky like a silver dagger. 

Taeyong remembers the Hall of Records, it was one of the larger buildings they passed by when they made their visit to the priestess, and now, its cube-like shape looms ahead of him, its shadow stretching far and long under the moonlight. 

Taeyong makes sure to stay close to the walls, to stay hidden under his cloak and in the darkness. Even at night, the complex is crawling with guards armed with golden-tipped spears and sun-touched armor. After all, the Empire values above most, if not all else, the vast stock of knowledge kept within the Tower of Sol.

 _I’m used to this,_ Taeyong realizes later, when he bypasses a pair of guards without making a single sound. 

He remembers days (and mostly nights) that he spent with Ten, who taught him where to put his weight and where to step in order to make the least noise, how to manage your breathing so you don’t give yourself away with a huff, how to spot a shadow from streets away and how to be one. 

As the prince sneaks in through one of the hall’s windows, he silently thanks Ten—wherever he may be. 

The Hall of Records seems larger from the inside, more spacious. Shelves upon shelves filled with scrolls stretch from the floors to the high ceiling, and the walls are aglow with the light of golden flames that lit up the hall without need for oil or wood or charcoal. The golden globes drifted aimlessly along the corridors like tiny wisps of the sun. 

Aside from them, there is no sign of anyone else in here.

 _Good,_ Taeyong thinks. His job will be much easier without anyone in the way. 

He walks down a central aisle, passing by signs and shelves and empty desks. Yuta’s voice echoes in his head: _The truth._ What even is the truth? In the haze of his lost memories and the stark obscurity of everything around him, would Taeyong recognize the truth even if it were right before his eyes?

He stops when he arrives at an aisle labelled _“Magistrate Cases.”_

Taeyong stalks along the shelf with intent eyes, scanning the alphabetically arranged scrolls for anything that sparks familiarity. Then, a moment later, his fingers latch onto a fairly recent scroll. It was of the magistrate trial he’d attended yesterday.

Almost greedily, he unfurls it, but he finds only disappointment at what he sees. There isn’t anything in the scroll that he doesn’t already know. The lines of information end abruptly, with a magistrate note:

_[The accused is deemed unfit for trial at the urging of His Highness, Prince Doyoung, Prince of Song. Chief Magister Kim Heechul concedes.]_

Taeyong sighs, frustration setting in. Not knowing in and of itself is a struggle, but not knowing about yourself? It’s enough to drive the most sanguine person insane.

“You’re not going to find anything interesting here. This is all public information,” says a voice. Taeyong startles, dropping the scroll. A tanned hand catches it, and Taeyong meets eyes with a familiar face. 

“Mage Haechan.”

Haechan smiles, with all the brightness of a rising sun. He moves in an elaborate bow. “Your highness.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be here,” Taeyong says, devising an escape plan in his mind. He could simply make a run for the nearest window, take off into the shadows. If Haechan tries to stop him, he could always just—

“Oh, don’t worry, my Prince,” Haechan follows Taeyong’s eyes with a bit of cunning in his own. He looks at the window as if he could see everything that lies beyond it. “I won’t tell. Besides, if you try to jump out that window, you’d find yourself in the arms of a dozen sun guards. So,” Haechan exhales, blowing his hair out of his eyes. He smiles breezily. “Me or the guards? I don’t suppose it’s a hard decision.”

Taeyong watches as Haechan delicately puts the scroll back into its place on the shelf. The boy (Taeyong calls him a boy because he’s clearly young, perhaps only a few years younger than the prince) is every bit like his people. Like the sun priestess and her servants, he’s glowing and gleaming and yet, Taeyong senses that there may be more to him. More than the wide smiles and golden eyes.

“Will you help me, then?”

“Sure,” Haechan says easily.

“Why?” Taeyong hesitates. “You’d be putting yourself in peril.”

“If it makes any difference, you’re the only one worth helping around here, your highness.” 

“It would be terribly irresponsible of me to put you in danger.” Taeyong begins to turn away. “No, I can’t do this. I suggest you forget anything that happened here tonight.”

He only gets away a few steps before Haechan speaks.

“The Hall of Secrecy.” 

Taeyong turns to him, and Haechan is observing him with those piercing eyes of his. 

“Pardon?”

Haechan pretends to dig something out of his nails. “That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for. _The truth,_ or so that voice in your head says.”

“How do-”

“We sun people know things, your highness. We’re mind-readers. Anyhoo,” Haechan pushes himself off the shelf, breezing past the prince. “I’ll take you there. You probably don’t even know where it is. Something about secrecy and all that.”

“Would the priestess not have your head for this?”

“The priestess doesn’t have to know,” Haechan says, briefly turning to the prince with a wink. “Besides, she spends her nights watching the moon. She’ll be on her balcony until sunrise, until the moon disappears behind the Altor Peaks. It’s a tragic sight actually. Her eyes bleed sorrow sometimes, and not even I with my extraordinary mind-reading powers can decipher what goes on in her mind.” A pause. “Or her heart. Awfully confusing, those two. Mind and heart get muddled so easily. Most people don’t seem to realize that thinking and feeling are two different things.”

Taeyong imagines a gloomy priestess in his head. It was unsightly. Yongsun’s suns for eyes and serene demeanor seemed ill-suited to any downcast emotion. But Taeyong recalls how the light had bled so severely from the Tower of Sol, enough that in the moonlight it looked like a tomb instead of a temple. Perhaps the brightest things can be ghastly after all. Perhaps the sun can lose its fire if the void is dark enough. 

Haechan’s ramblings echo off the narrowing walls around them, and the mage leads the prince down a maze of hallways that seem like hell to memorize. Before Taeyong knows it, they’re standing in front of an ancient-looking door. 

“Have you heard of a tesseract, m’lord?” Haechan asks. He fumbles with a set of keys that look very much as if they’d been stolen from some unsuspecting guard. 

“A shape?” 

“A cube within a cube, to put it simply. They followed the pattern of a tesseract in designing this building, so that there’s a much smaller hall within the larger one. It’s all quite fascinating if you’re interested in that kind of stuff. Aha!” The mage cheers as he seems to find the correct key, and jams it into the lock with a concerning amount of haphazardness and turns his wrist. A mechanism whirrs to life under the dusty surface of the door.

“Are you even allowed to be here?” Taeyong finds himself asking. 

The prince is deprived of an answer as the door pushes itself open. Haechan holds out a hand, a golden orb forming over his palm. He holds it out in front of him and they begin to wade through the darkness. 

The place is nearly identical to the Hall of Records, albeit smaller. The sound echoed against a lower ceiling, and it made the place feel stuffy. 

“Here,” Haechan says, shining light down an aisle of shelves. “Magistrate cases, decrees, scandals, it should all be here.” 

Taeyong nods. “Thank you.” 

He walks past dusty rows of crystal balls and inconspicuous tools, all layered with dust, all looking as if they belonged in a bygone age. Then he notices a box labeled with the words _**Black Rose.**_

Taeyong stops. His hand reaches out to it and tugs it onto the floor. He rummages through the contents until he finds a scroll with his name written on it. With shaking yet firm fingers he unfurls the fresh parchment. 

**Office of the Chief Magister**  
_in cooperation with the First Catechism_

The Empire v. Prince Taeyong and Prince Yuta

With evidence accrued through clandestine methods that shall not be identified, Prince Taeyong and Prince Yuta, sons of His Majesty, the Emperor Sunjong, shall henceforth be labelled as traitors to the Empire, and shall hereby be sentenced to death by capital punishment. The charges are as follows: 

High treason,  
Perpetuation of unrest; and  
Supporting insurgent agendas. 

Let it be known that Prince Taeyong and Prince Yuta have these charges placed upon their heads for aiding and abetting the insidious Kingdom of the Black Rose and their attempts at infiltrating and damaging the Empire. 

Let it be known that the two princes betrayed their Empire to the Black Rose. At the Emperor’s behest, the First Catechism shall handle the case as they see fit. The Magistrate will not interfere.

-

_Rain falls in distant torrents in the plains beyond the Keep—cold, icy daggers descending from the night-sky. Children cry for their parents. Houses burn. Horses run loose, set free from their stables. A village in tatters. Resistance was crushed long ago._

_Cry no more, Taeyong wishes to say. But how could he? How could he tell those children to stop crying when their parents are lying meters away, their blood mixing with the mud, their throats slit open._

_Soldiers carry away bundles of harvest and usher livestock in the direction of their black fortress, a fixture in the distance._

_Kill. Steal. Burn._

_It is only the first night raid. One of many to come._

_There’s something on the ground. Crushed stem, petals pulled, crown hanging loosely onto drenched fibers. A ruined black rose. Taeyong picks it up with trembling fingers. It’s not the ugliest thing here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i smell a cliffhanger!? yes... yes i do.  
> [my twitter! <3](https://twitter.com/yunqisix)


	6. The Unbinding of Chains,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My loyalty is to you, my prince.”
> 
> “Only me?” Taeyong asks, almost hopefully. 
> 
> Jaehyun looks at him, dripping in silver moonlight, with eyes that only make room for candid sincerity. “Only you. I swore upon it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After nearly a month, Hell on Haven is back with chapter six! we are just getting to the juicy part, tbh. AND JAEYONG!
> 
> ALSO! I made a playlist for this fic, and I chose the songs carefully so I hope you like it (if you decide to listen to it) <3 
> 
> here it is:  
> [princely afflictions](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7q3tuXLwHRWPNDICyWdxz3?si=3wiCT7tYTxejbsVwm3B8xw)

“Did you find what you were looking for, my prince?”

Taeyong does not answer him. He’s paused beside an open window, ready to disappear into the night and to wherever his feet may lead him. He meets eyes with the mage before him.

“I suppose you did,” Haechan continues. His eyes are glazed with piercing contemplation. “Your mind, it understands now. If only a little.” 

Haechan leans against a shelf, looking so boyish and innocent and so undeserving of the world Taeyong may just have pulled him into. 

“If only a little,” Taeyong echoes. _And so much more left to understand._

Haechan nods. “It’ll be an arduous journey, I’m afraid. And the prince has only begun taking his first few steps. I wish you luck.”

“You were a great deal of help, Haechan. I’m indebted to you.”

“Nonsense,” Haechan says easily. “It was an honor.”

“To have broken the law with me?”

“To have saved many people by doing so. And by the way,” he looks shy for a moment. “It’s Donghyuck. My real name. Not that you’d care a whole lot.”

It’s a pretty name. An ordinary one. Briefly, Taeyong imagined the boy in the countryside, away from the Capitol and the sun people and all the complications that came with living in the heart of the Empire. It suited him, Taeyong thought. 

“Take care, Donghyuck,’ the prince says, and he meant it with every drop of sincerity in his heart. 

The mage blinks and at once, the window is empty. The curtains rustle absently, waving before the bright, full moon above. He stretches in place, the weariness of tonight settling under his skin like some benign disease. Donghyuck walks himself out of the Hall of Records, taking special care to avoid the sun guards that patrolled the empty streets. It’s a number of minutes later when he finds himself ascending the winding staircase of the Tower of Sol, his feet leading him to a familiar place, one where he spent nights with the tower’s lone sentinel. 

Donghyuck sneaks into the priestess’ quarters, heading straight for the balcony. He finds her in the exact same spot she always stands in, face tilted up to the moon. The moonlight settled over her skin like an ethereal veil. 

Donghyuck lingers by the doorway for a moment, not wanting to disturb her peace.

“Do you think she’s still out there?” he asks quietly.

It takes her a while to answer. When she does, she briefly turns to face her pupil, nursing a cup of tea to her lips.

“There isn’t a point in believing otherwise.” 

“How contrary.”

The priestess makes an inquisitive noise. She raises a sharp eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”

“No, it’s just that most people would say the opposite. They speak of the dead as gone, yet here you are refusing death its own right to claim a soul.”

Yongsun tries for a smile. It disappears within moments. “We don’t know if she’s dead.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Where have you been?” The priestess asks, eager to change the subject.

Donghyuck takes his place on the lone chair on the balcony, as he always does. “My bedroom.” 

Yongsun laughs fondly, a breathy sound. “I’d rather you stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Lying to me when you know I can read your mind. Your thoughts are like stray ants I could easily pick off of the marble.” Yongsun casts a weary glance at Donghyuck. “What did the Prince of Light want?”

“The truth,” he says simply. 

Yongsun hums. “And did you give it to him?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

Abruptly, shadow descends upon the balcony, the culprit being a blanket of dark clouds rolling through the night sky, slowly obscuring the moon. Thunder crackles distantly. With a miniscule wave of her hand, Yongsun sets the candles in her quarters afire. 

“Come now, my darling flame. I’d hate for the rain to dampen you.”

Donghyuck follows her inside, ready for a night of silent reading and pleasant company. This is how it is in the lonely Tower of Sol. Separated from the city around it, it’s almost like a prison. A place of solitary confinement where ghosts of ages gone past haunt the empty halls. But full suns thrive within its walls even in the night, no matter how lonely. That is, if Donghyuck has anything to say about it. 

-

The rain begins falling just as Taeyong walks through the palace’s grand entrance. The guards wearily watch him pass by, and they watch until he disappears into the winding hallways that he’d already rememorized in the maps of his mind. Even then, the marble statues seemed to follow him with their eyes.

He found it. The truth. 

Taeyong has always been rational. Always level-headed. He needed to be. As the eldest of four siblings, it had always been his unspoken responsibility to be the calm one, to be the eye of the storm no matter how tempestuous it may be. So he breathes in, holds, and breathes out. He takes step after step, one after the other. Even as the world around him feels as if it’s crumbling, he holds steady. There is only one feeling rising above all else, more an instinct than an emotion: The need to survive. 

He has no time to fall apart at this blood-red revelation, has no time to sit still and ponder the contents of the scroll sitting in the pocket of his robe. Even now, the parchment seems to sear through the fabric and smoulder against his skin. 

Taeyong reaches his room and releases a shaky sigh. He closes the door behind him, leaning against the cool wood. His eyes are focused on the opposite wall and the window he’d left open. The sprawling landscape beyond the Capitol walls is all too inviting. 

He found the truth, and now he needs to stay alive. The only way he can do that is by leaving. 

What is there worth staying for in this hellish place anyway? His distant father? The cup of tea always set upon his bedside table? The window whose wood had lost luster due to years of being leaned upon? The haughty bureaucrats? The sinister plots?

Doyoung. 

Jaehyun?

The general’s words echo in his mind at that moment. 

_You can place your full confidence in me, your highness._

Jaehyun’s bedroom, courtesy of his assignment as Taeyong’s official bodyguard, is only a few doors down from his own. It’s only logical, isn’t it? That in a time such as this, his first instinct is to go to the man sworn to protect him.

That thought process is how Taeyong finds himself at the general’s bedroom door, his fist pounding on the wood as quietly as he was able despite his increasing urgence.

The door swings open, and Jaehyun appears in the doorway wide-eyed. 

Jaehyun appears to be at a loss for words. “Your high-”

“May I come in?” Taeyong tries to smile, but it falters miserably.

Jaehyun considers him for a moment before wordlessly stepping aside. He opens the door wider and gestures for the prince to come inside.

“I’m not safe here, Jaehyun,” Taeyong says as soon as he hears the door click shut. It was far too dark in this room, and it’s taking all his self control not to light a candle himself. “I’ve never been.”

“Is something wrong, sire?”

Jaehyun takes it upon himself to light a candle, and the small flame paints the room in a dull amber. Taeyong takes the scroll out of his robes and hands it over to Jaehyun, deciding to let the evidence speak for itself.

Jaehyun stalks over to the candlelight and reads through the scroll with critical eyes but with a blank face, and Taeyong wishes just this once that the general wasn’t so relentlessly impenetrable. 

“You are in danger,” Jaehyun affirms quietly. “Most cases handed to the First Catechism end in death.”

“I’ve never heard of the First Catechism.”

“It’s a secret organization of powerful individuals dedicated to protecting the Empire, and above all, the Emperor. I only discovered its existence when I was assigned to the Capitol. Members usually have the Emperor’s full confidence.” Jaehyun returns the scroll to him. “The ones I know of are the Executioner and the Chief Magister.”

“Yukhei and Heechul?” 

Jaehyun nods. “It’s how the Emperor makes sure he’s still in control.” 

“Haven,” Taeyong sighs. “And you? Are you a part of it?” 

Jaehyun shakes his head, and Taeyong releases a breath. “Good. I’d be wrong in coming here otherwise.” 

Silence, a swathe of it. Taeyong is sick of silence, sick of secrets. He feels as if he could combust from frustration, anything to create some noise—but Jaehyun does it for him, shattering the quiet with a mere whisper of six words. 

“I am going to protect you.” 

Taeyong’s eyes latch onto him, wide and wild and turbulent. “What of the Empire?”

“My loyalty is to you, my prince.”

“Only me?” Taeyong asks, almost hopefully. 

Jaehyun looks at him, dripping in silver moonlight, with eyes that only make room for candid sincerity, and he does not falter when he says, “Only you. I swore upon it.”

Taeyong runs a hand through his hair. “I’m a- I’m a fugitive. The Empire will be coming after me.”

“I understand perfectly well,” Jaehyun says. “There is no need to worry about my safety. I am honour-bound to serve and protect you, and I shall do so no matter the risk or danger. Now with all due respect, your highness, the Emperor has ears and eyes everywhere. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out that you’ve discovered the truth.” Jaehyun strides over to his wardrobe, extracting his armor from within. “We are running out of time.”

_We._

Taeyong looks at Jaehyun, who’s briskly sliding his arms into his gauntlets. He pulls his chestplate over himself with practiced ease. He’s not even thinking twice about this, at least he doesn’t appear to be. 

“Why are you doing this?” Taeyong finds himself asking. 

Jaehyun doesn’t answer him, moving toward the door. He opens it and fixes his gaze on Taeyong. “Shall we, sire?”

They’re swiftly descending down the palace through secret hallways Taeyong wasn’t even aware of. Jaehyun explains that the concealed labyrinth was a secret kept among palace staff and security so they could get around quickly in case of an emergency. 

“I need to see Doyoung,” Taeyong says absently.

Taeyong thinks he sees Jaehyun nod, but he’s too busy being pulled through a door that leads them out into an empty, dark alley outside the palace. Taeyong muffles a sound of surprise. He lets Jaehyun lead the way as he gets lost in his mind, too distracted to pay attention to his surroundings. 

Now, they stalk through quiet, dark streets where the rainfall’s steady pitter-patter conceals the sound of their hurried footsteps. Cold wind blows, threatening to knock Taeyong’s coat right off of his body. They continue down the roads until the plain rock turns into a familiar cobblestone path, one that leads to an austere mansion sitting right at the end of it. 

Even on this dark, rainy night, there seemed to be few lights lit in the home. 

Taeyong brings the knocker down on the wood of the door. The music coming from inside stops, and heavy footsteps begin to approach from within. 

The door swings open, and what greets them is a wide-eyed bard who does little to conceal his surprise.

“Your highness!” Renjun exclaims. His eyes drift to Jaehyun and he seems to stand up straighter. “General. Good evening, I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you. Please come in.”

The bard ushers the two guests into the receiving room. Taeyong frantically looks around for his brother, barely registering Renjun easing his dripping coat off of him. Doyoung emerges from the living room a short second later. 

“What brings you here?” he asks, looking at a distant clock and then to Taeyong. Shortly after, when his eyes find Jaehyun in his full armor hanging behind his brother, he reconsiders his question. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you. In private.”

Doyoung nods, his brows now furrowed with worry. He ushers them into the living room, and closes the door behind him. Taeyong sits close to the fireplace, where an earnest flame eats away at the firewood with a steady crackle. He watches the sparks that fly every now and then. Jaehyun stays glued beside the door, and Doyoung regards him with more than a pinch of weariness. 

Doyoung crosses the room to stand before his brother. “Taeyong, you’re worrying me.”

Wordlessly, Taeyong extracts the scroll from within his vestments. He offers it unto Doyoung’s hesitant hands. The Prince of Song considers him with a questioning gaze before unfurling the parchment. At once, it seems as if a dark shadow has descended upon Doyoung’s face, and the room goes cold despite the fire that burns steadily in the hearth.

“What am I looking at?” Doyoung asks, terse. 

“A death sentence. Mine and Yuta’s.” 

“Is this true?” Doyoung’s voice is quiet, and Taeyong strains to hear him. Louder, more roughly, he repeats, “Is this true, Taeyong?”

“That the Empire wants me dea—”

“That you betrayed the Empire. It’s one thing to despise your father, the Emperor, it is another thing to betray the Empire which _you serve._ By betraying the Empire, you betray its people. The very same people who look to us for guidance.”

“Doyoung-”

“But you always had your reasons, didn’t you?” Doyoung chuckles dryly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Haven, I don’t know what to make of this.” 

“Neither do I.” 

Doyoung fixes Taeyong with a long, hard stare. 

“I trust you,” Doyoung says. Again, he affirms, “I trust you. You, Yuta, and Ten. I trust all of you more than anyone else, and Haven damn me if I refuse another brother that needs my help. Listen to me, here’s what you’re going to do.” 

By the time Taeyong and Jaehyun are ushered out of West Manor’s back entrance, they already have the beginnings of a concrete plan. That plan is this: Leave the Capitol, that’s the first priority. Once they make it past the walls, they have to journey to where this all began, the Keep. There, Taeyong can only hope to find answers. But before all that, there’s one more person that’s due a visitation. 

-

The Capitol is divided into four quarters, North, South, West and East. The North Quarter is where the nobility residentials are nestled, a vast place of winding, well-lit streets and tangent pathways that lead to sprawling mansions. Taxpayer coins are what built these lavish houses, and it is those same coins that come from starving peasants that the nobles of the Empire use to throw themselves fancy banquets of nauseating grandeur. At this time of night, however, there are no banquets to indulge in, no nobles walking the deserted paths. The silence and cover of night makes it easier for the prince and the general to make their way upon a certain Senator’s doorstep.

When Kun opens the door, his face doesn’t twist with surprise. Instead, he only stares at the pair with grim resignation and opens his door wider. “Inside, quickly.”

The senator’s home is modest, walls decorated with prized paintings and precious ceramics. There are master-crafted instruments here and there, their prestige rivalling those that the Prince of Song owns. 

“You’re not safe here,” Kun tells them later, pouring both a glass of wine. “And I fear that since you’ve come here, neither am I.” 

“We wouldn’t be here if you were honest with us in the first place,” Taeyong says. He shows Kun the scroll, who only takes a meager glance at it before walking over to a distant table upon which sat bottles of expensive alcohol.

“I’ve seen that before, your highness. They presented it to all the members of the senate and the court.” 

“Well?” Taeyong prompts. “You’re obligated to tell me _why_ I’m being put to death. What did I do to be charged with all of these things?”

“Respectfully, your highness, I am not,” Kun gulps down a glass of dark brown wine. He hisses as it cascades down his throat with a burn. “But I’ll tell you anyway. Everything on that scroll is true. You were involved with the Black Rose, and you were instrumental in facilitating one of the most audacious tragedies that have beleaguered the Empire.” 

“How?”

“I don’t know how your connection to the Kingdom came to be, your highness, but this I do know. Many, many moons ago, the forces of day and night worked in conjunction to support the Empire, keeping it alive in a sense. The sun mages, though extremely powerful, are very few in number. That is why the entirety of their order is stationed at the Capitol. So who is left to deal with the ancillary villages outside the Capitol? The other cities in the Empire?”

“The moon sorcerers?” 

Kun nods. “And Haven knows what happened out there. Something horrible, most likely. Nonetheless, there was a rebellion. Word never spread in the Capitol for fear of dissent, but the Lunar Priestess had directly defied the Emperor and, in turn, the Empire. The Black Rose capitalized on this brief weakness, and an operation was undertaken to evacuate the Priestess and all her followers from the Empire. The operation was a collaboration between Black Rose leaders and their spies at the Keep. The First Catechism determined that the spies were you and Lord Yuta, your highness.” 

Taeyong releases a labored sigh. “I… don’t remember any of that.”

“That’s deliberate, your highness.” 

“What?”

“Or it might be, who knows. All I know is that after the Empire found out, the two princes were to be eliminated.”

“Why am I still alive then? Why were we allowed to live?” 

“One out of the two of you are already gone, your highness, which suggests that the Catechism’s plans are somewhat in order. See, they decided that executing two princes out in the open would weaken the public’s faith in the royal bloodline, which includes the Emperor. By placing the blame for the Lord of Flames’ death on you, the issue is compartmentalized. The second phase of the executions would have been to put you on trial and publicly hang a death sentence upon you. Obviously, something has gone wrong, because you’re standing before me unscathed.” 

Taeyong observes this man, whose appearance is that of a mere commoner now that he’s shed his senatorial robes. He’s defenseless before the prince and the general, and yet bare as he was, there is no reason to place faith in him. “Why should I trust anything you say?”

“Truth be told, your highness, loyalty is a frail thing. Especially loyalty to our beloved Emperor. The general is proof of that.” Kun regards Jaehyun with a knowing glint in his eye. “The Emperor has ruled for hundreds of years, and only now are his dirty secrets being uncovered. The horrors that the commoners go through are torments that the Capitol’s citizens are oblivious to. Have you never wondered what takes place in the farmlands beyond the Keep? In the cities left to fend for themselves? Have you never thought what discomfort they have to go through so that the Capitol could build its palaces? The general should know.”

Taeyong looks at Jaehyun, and for a brief moment he sees a crack in the general’s composure. Jaehyun frowns, his entire disposition now grim.

Kun continues. “I am not a frail man your highness, and yet the little that I know of what goes on beyond these walls makes my knees tremble as if Hell is going to swallow the ground I stand upon. And I reckon that the very same realization prompted you to do what you did back then. More and more of us are becoming aware of the malignant truths of our Empire, but they will see to it that we’re eliminated before our numbers become too great and the truth is spoken.”

Later on, Taeyong finds himself walking out of the senator’s house with new-found knowledge that he doesn’t know how to carry. Nonetheless, he thanks the senator before leaving. 

“Thank you sincerely, senator,” Taeyong says, trying for a smile. “You’ve helped a great deal in helping me understand this mess.”

“You’re our only hope, my prince,” Kun whispers, as if watchful eyes and ears lurk in the indiscernible darkness that permeates the quiet streets. “You’re our only chance of breaking free from the chains. The people are depending upon you, so by Haven you must not suffer defeat.”

“Whatever that means, I shall do my very best,” Taeyong nods. “Besides, General Jung won’t let any harm come to me, won’t he?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Certainly not, my prince.”

“I’m glad,” Kun says, already retreating behind his door. “Be well, the both of you.”

And that’s how they find themselves venturing away from the North Quarter’s mansions and all the way down to the South, where the massive iron gates that serve as the Capitol’s sole entrance remain shut. The rain had stopped by then, the ground still moist, and guards patrol the expanse of the wall, drifting to and from staggering watchtowers. 

Doyoung waits for them at the base of the wall, clad in a cloak that seemed blacker than the shadows around him. He holds a horse by the leash, fully harnessed and ready for travel. 

“Finally,” Doyoung hisses when he sees the pair. “I thought I’d be waiting all night. Take this horse. There’s food and water in the compartments, enough for two weeks if you ration smartly. There are coats and blankets in the rucksack. I also packed some medicine in case you need it. I’m going to go up there and enchant the guards into opening the gates, it’s only going to be a short window of time so you have to be swift.” 

Jaehyun mounts the horse, the animal shifting unsteadily at the foreign presence. Jaehyun manages to placate it after a few moments, his hand gently combing through the horse’s white mane. 

“Thank you,” Taeyong says, taking one of Doyoung’s hands. Doyoung decides not to be sparse with the physical affection and pulls Taeyong into a tight embrace.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, alright?” His eyes seem to shine with unshed tears, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

“I hope so too,” Taeyong murmurs as he nuzzles into Doyoung’s neck. “I love you.”

“And I, you.” Doyoung gently parts from him, looking at him with a firm gaze. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

Then, swift as shadow, the prince of song ventures into the door leading to the wall, and Taeyong takes Jaehyun’s hand as he mounts the horse. Taeyong has a few moments to ponder the awkwardness of being so close to Jaehyun, slightly questioning his brother’s decision to get only one horse instead of two. Then, a calm melody emerges from the battlements, gentle music that could only come from a flute. 

In moments, the heavy iron gates drag open with a heavy creak. 

“Hold on, your highness,” Jaehyun says, briefly looking back at him. Taeyong hesitates, but he wraps his arms around Jaehyun’s waist anyway.

Then, Jaehyun snaps the reins, and the horse barrels forward at a speed that makes Taeyong tighten his grip around the general. 

Doyoung watches as a white horse rides past the gates below him and into the sprawling fields beyond the walls. He continues playing his song until they’re far enough, until they’re but a speck in the distance, indiscernible. Out of sight, out of reach. Only then does Doyoung let the flute fall from his mouth, and at the same time the guards he’d enchanted fall to the ground in a deep sleep. The chains that hold the gate clatter with a jarring metallic noise which stops only when the iron gates sink back into the ground with a crash like thunder. 

Thereupon the Capitol’s walls stands solemnly the last untainted prince of the Empire, and he watches, with more pain than he thought there’d be, as his brother leaves him alone in the cold, empty place they used to call home. 

And so, the unbinding of chains begins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm! there is a lot to unpack.. so i'll leave you to it! I think you can glean how the story will go based on the info divulged here. like always, kudos and comments are loved <3 let me know what you think down below or scream at me on my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/yunqisix)


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